


Adorable, Like a Werekitten

by JKL_FFF



Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman (2012), Parapines - Fandom
Genre: Animal Transformation, Bigfoot - Freeform, Cats, M/M, Mayonnaise, Parapines, Pining, Shooting, Shooting Guns, Sleepovers, Transformation, Were-Creatures, Werecats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 20:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20103004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKL_FFF/pseuds/JKL_FFF
Summary: It's best not to go out hiking alone through the woods; you could get injured and stranded far from help, you could get lost with no one knowing where to look for you, or (in rare cases) you could get attacked and infected by a wild were-animal which will cause you to transform into a fursona. Dipper learns this lesson the hard way.But, having lost the Journal, how can Dipper hope to reverse this transformation? Is he cursed to now do *everything* (not just sneeze) like a kitten forever? Or can Norman and Mabel help him find a cure?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The shipping aspect of this is fairly minimal--mostly Norman developing a one-sided crush on Dipper Pines, who is hopelessly oblivious--and some occasional fluffy moments. Just so no one gets into this solely for the ship, only to be disappointed that it doesn't develop into anything explicit.
> 
> Also, incidentally, this was the first piece of fanfic I ever wrote and posted (even before "Through a Slender Opening", though it precedes this one chronologically). The tone is rather different for that reason; much lighter and naïve (for lack of a better word).

No one ever thinks about how realistic The Sound of Music could have been. Instead of a musical, it could have been a movie about paranormal events (and, therefore, much closer to reality than the original plot about singing nuns beating the SS). If only the director had actually listened to the first line—the one about the hills being alive.

Because some hills _are_ alive, and weird crap happens around those hills . . .

****

Dipper was being watched; he could feel it . . .

He always felt it here (in the mountain valley that was Gravity Falls, Oregon), to tell the truth, but now it was stronger than ever. Something was watching him right now, even as he tried to sleep . . . and it was something _big_ . . .

That thought startled him awake, but the attic room was empty (save, of course, for Mabel and Waddles in the other bed). Empty and dark. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, though the horizon was aglow behind Mount Immovable—making its silhouette look like a black, blinking pyramid.

“Wait, what?!”

Dipper peered out the window. But it couldn’t be! He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, it was really there! Near the crest of Mount Immovable was a huge, slowly-blinking eye! And it was focused right at him!

“M-Mabel!” he shouted, diving to shake his sister. “Mabel, wake up! You have to see this!”

But she was too deeply asleep. It was like trying to wake a hibernating bear (and Dipper reckoned it was probably about as smart as that, too). She even growled at him. Waddles turned his porcine eyes up at Dipper and grunted reprovingly—either “sleeping” or “doorbell”—and then nestled back into the blanket.

Dipper leapt back to the window, but the Eye was gone. “Or closed, more likely . . .” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t imagined it, though; he was sure of that. If life in Gravity Falls had taught him anything, it was that he was _never_ imagining _anything_.

Fumbling through his clothes, he dug 3 from his vest. But the journal’s old and stained pages—informative on everything from Astral Projections to Zombies (or the “Living Impaired”, because apparently “Zombie” is an offensive term)—had nothing about the Eye. Only a sketch on the second page even alluded to its existence.

He scrutinized the mountain again, but its face was now blank and black. He glanced at Mabel, but she rolled over while murmuring something like “Onwards, Aoshima . . .” She was obviously too out of it to help. “Looks like it’s up to me to investigate . . .” he decided.

It was a long way to travel, however, without a direct trail. The sun was up before Dipper even reached the foot of Mount Immovable. Out of breath, he sat and flipped through the pages of 3 again—looking more closely than before—but still found no information on the Eye.

And then he felt it again, that tingling sensation at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. But it was different this time; somehow, it was sharper and closer, and much more menacing. It wasn’t the Eye watching him distantly from above. It was something nearer . . .

Closing the journal slowly, Dipper listened. “No birds are chirping, and no squirrels are . . . squirreling, or whatever sound it is squirrels make. . .” It was silent. Absolutely silent. “_No_ _no_ _no_ _no_ . . .” he murmured. “Silence is _never_ a good sign . . .”

Was it in the bushes around him? Was it behind him? Was it readying to spring?

“Yeah, probably . . .”

He tightened his grip on the journal, and remained perfectly still . . .

Suddenly, it lunged out of the bushes! But Dipper dropped to the ground, and it sailed over him! It landed and spun around, but Dipper came up swinging the journal! THWACK! Connecting hard with its leonine face, he surprised it and knocked it down! Then Dipper turned and dashed off through the trees, screaming at the top of his lungs! “AAAAAAAAAAAAA! _HELP_! _HELP_! _HELP_!”

It came after him, roaring and shrieking, but he wove through the trees and managed to dodge it once, twice, thrice! He darted left, then changed directions and sprinted right! He jumped behind trees and boulders, always evading it by mere inches!

And then it tackled him from the side, hard and sharp, and they rolled into a shallow ravine with a river at the bottom! Dizzy from the fall, Dipper rose to his knees! And so did the creature—using _hands_ to push itself up onto _knees_!—with its fury yet mannish body and its head like a mountain lion!

“MOUNTAIN LION . . . M-MAN!” Dipper shouted, grabbing the first thing that came to hand (a rock) and throwing it as hard as he could! CRACK!

Stricken, the creature shrieked and covered its face with clawed hands, but Dipper was up and jumping from rock to rock across the river! Once on the other side, he scrambled up the ravine and chanced a look back! The creature hadn’t followed—it remained on the opposite bank, glaring angrily up at him through a swollen eye—but Dipper still turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him!

****

The “MYSTERY SHACK” (or, more accurately the “MYSTERY HACK” since the “S” had long tumbled down) was an old and almost dilapidated building, eccentric and eclectic and mostly held together by duct tape—a lot like the oddities it housed (and probably the man who owned it). It smelled weird, and it was full of weird things in jars, and hanging out there meant helping out with usually weird chores, but Norman loved the place. No one said snide or cruel things there, no one called him a freak or a liar, and no one accused him of making up the things he saw. Dipper and Mabel believed him, accepted him. They even liked him (as did Soos and Wendy and even Stan, though those three probably didn’t know about Norman’s ability to see and speak with ghosts and spirits, or believe it if they did).

It was more like home than home ever had been.

Only a little after sunrise, it was still early—the Mystery Shack hadn’t even officially opened—so Norman went around back to the kitchen door and knocked. Sure enough, Mabel was having breakfast.

“Good morning, Norman!” she burst out. “Or maybe ‘good norming, Mornman’! I just taught Waddles to say ‘morning’! You wanna hear?” And then she turned to her pet and coaxed, “Say ‘morning’, Waddles! Say it!” The pig grunted something that was either ‘morning’ or ‘sleeping’, and Mabel squealed with delight. “Who’s a smart pig? Who’s a smart, _smart_ pig?”

“Heh. Cool. But you might not want to reward him with bacon.”

“Why not? Bacon is his favorite. Everyone likes bacon. Bacon is delicious.”

“That is . . . frankly, disturbing . . .” Norman decided. “So . . . where’s Dipper?”

With a shrug, Mabel answered, “He went out early. I think he tried to wake me up, but I’m a _deeeeeeeep_ _sleeeeeeper_,” she said in as deep a bass as she could manage. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon, though. You want some breakfast?”

A little disappointed, Norman took a seat at the table with a perfunctory, “Thanks.”

But Mabel didn’t seem to notice as she was waving her pet’s hooves and coaxing, “Waddles, say ‘bacon’!” And the pig grunted something that was either ‘bacon’ or ‘morning’. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! This pig is a _linguistic_ _genius_!”

One bowl of Boo-Berries later (a favorite, but one that Norman didn’t dare eat anywhere else), Dipper still hadn’t returned. There was still no sign of him through the kitchen windows. “Do you . . . know where he went?”

“Hmm? Who, Dipper? Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.”

Unconvinced, Norman turned back to the window, only to see a horrible, hairy, apish face scowling in at him! “Buh!” he exclaimed, falling off the chair.

Mabel looked, and then screamed, “_Sasquatch_! It wants to make me its forest queen! _Nooooo_! Why does _everything_ want to make me its forest queen!?”

“Kits, com dow!” a muffled voice shouted over them. “I’s jus me!”

Mabel gaped, “Gruncle Stan? Is this . . . what you look like _before_ shaving?”

Pulling down a zipper at the throat (that had been hidden by fur), Stan was able to push back the hairy ape face to reveal a hairy, proboscis monkey face. Only then did he gruffly retort, “Ha ha, you’re cute. So what do you think of the Bigfoot costume? Did good in storage, huh?”

Norman and Mabel both eyed the shaggy suit with ill-contained revulsion, for it was greasy in spots, had mud caked onto others, and flies were already buzzing about it.

Mabel began, “It’s very . . . um . . .”

“_Feral_,” Norman finished for her.

“Exactly. Feral. Which is a good thing for a Bigfoot to be. So . . . why are you wearing that?”

“We’ve had fewer visitors this month than last month, and fewer visitors last month than the month before that,” Stan declared sourly. “If we don’t get that turned around, I might have to send you kids to gut fish at the lake.”

Mabel shuddered. “Never again . . . _Still_ smell like caviar . . .”

“But fortunately, I’ve got a trick that always brings in the rubes,” Stan announced more cheerily. “All I gotta do is lumber around the forest for a day or two in my Bigfoot costume, and before you know it the rubes are lining up to hand me their money. You gotta love this country.”

“Isn’t that . . . kinda unethical?” Norman piped up shyly.

Stan eyed him dubiously. “Let me put it this way: Bigfoot is real, like Elvis. Is it unethical when people dress up like Elvis? No. So it’s not unethical for me to dress up like Bigfoot. It’s free publicity for Bigfoot. And free money for me. Win-win. Any _more_ questions?”

“N-no, sir.”

“I told you to call me ‘Gruncle Stan’, Paintbrush,” the old man said, not unkindly. He even tousled the boy’s untamably spiky hair. “In the meantime, though, you kids are gonna have to step up helping Soos and Wendy run things around here. Speaking of you kids, where _is_ that third one? We’ve got Mabel Syrup and Paintbrush, but no Dipping Sauce.”

“I think Dipper’s out walking,” Norman suggested quickly. “Should be back soon.”

“Hmm. Walking . . . Good habit, I guess . . . Healthy . . . Well, I should get to work. Tell Wendy she’s to man the cash register—or, woman it, I guess—and Soos is on tour-guide duty if anyone shows up. I want the three of you helping them wherever they need you, understood?”

Mabel saluted, and Norman eventually followed suite.

Nodding his approval, Stan placed the mask back over his face and loped slowly into the woods.

“Well, that happened,” Norman said uncertainly. “Does Stan do this Bigfoot thing often?”

“Nuh uh uh!” Mabel chided him, waving a finger in his face. “First rule of the Mystery Shack: we don’t talk about the Bigfoot thing. Second rule of the Mystery Shack: we don’t talk about the Bigfoot thing. Third rule of the Mystery Shack: no refunds and no outside food.”

Norman snorted. “You guys are _so_ weird. Says the boy who sees ghosts.”

“Says the boy who—oh,” Mabel caught herself playfully. “You _ragamuffin_, you . . .”

****

A root caught Dipper’s foot, and he tripped onto his face. Panting, he lay there a moment, unable to rise. He’d been running so hard and so long, he just couldn’t get up—couldn’t move or catch his breath. Cramps arced up and down the left side of his body, but the nausea was the worst part.

And then he noticed the throbbing pain in his left hand. He looked, and was surprised to see a deep cut. “When . . . when’d I . . . get that?” he gasped aloud. It had obviously been bleeding for some time, but when could it have happened? Then, with a sense of dread, he remembered being tackled—remembered claws and teeth as he and the Mountain Lion Man rolled into the ravine. “It clawed me?” he whimpered in disbelief. “I better . . . bandage it right away . . .”

He retrieved a roll of bandages from one of his vest pockets (life in Gravity Falls had also taught him to _always_ carry bandages). It was awkward work, wrapping it one-handedly while the cramps seemed to get worse and the throbbing redoubled, but he eventually managed.

Staggering up, he strove to get his bearings. “The river was probably . . . Inertia River, off of Gravity Falls . . .” he said queasily. “So the Shack is . . . probly . . . northa here . . . Oh my gosh, it _hurts_!” And he fell forward, yowling.

His whole body was in pain, but it seemed to be radiating out from the cut! And, as he looked, his flesh actually seemed to be rippling: one second, it was covered in brown fur, the next smooth skin! One second he had claws, the next they were normal hands! His spine felt like it was extending, and his ears stretching out, and his teeth lengthening and sharpening! His eyes seemed to catch every moment, and his nose was on fire with new smells! He could feel bristles pushing out around it, forming whiskers!

And then it stopped, and Dipper lay even more breathlessly on the ground. He was normal again, but felt so ill. “Just like . . . the transformation in . . . a werewolf movie . . . Only that was a . . . werelion or werepuma? No . . . a were_cat_ . . .” he finally decided. And then it dawned on him, and he moaned, “Oh no . . . I’ve been _infected_ . . . _I_’m now a werecat!”

And, suddenly, it started again! The same full-body throbbing racked him! He spasmed on the ground, and his trademark hat was knocked askew.

“I’m changing into a bloodthirsty beast!” he whimpered. “No! _No_! I don’t _want_ to!” he asserted. “I won’t! I am _not_ a monster! I am _not_ a werecat! I am Dipper Pines, and this is gonna _stop_!”

He slammed his hand against the ground, and suddenly the transformation stopped.

For a moment, Dipper just lay there and heaved. Then he looked at his hand. Normal—no claws, no fur. He looked at his other hand. Also normal. Kneeling, he observed, “I don’t . . . _feel_ any different. Huh . . .” He sat back, and a bolt of pain launched him forward. “Yeow! What was that?!”

Looking back, he saw something long and covered in fur sticking out of his shorts. It was a tail.

“I . . . have a tail . . .” Dipper said weakly. “And I sat on it . . . I sat on my tail . . . which I have . . .”

He felt in his mouth. No fangs. He felt his nose. No whiskers, and he only smelled regular, normal, everyday things. His eyes felt normal, too. Then he patted the side of his head, but his ears weren’t where they were supposed to be. He found them on the top of his head, and they were big and pointed and twitching in every direction.

“I . . . have cat ears . . .” Dipper said weakly. “I am now a werecat . . . I am now a . . . a _freak_ . . . Alright, just keep calm. Gotta keep calm. Remember that panic is the Dipper-killer. I’m sure there’s something in the journal that can—”

He felt in his vest pocket, but it wasn’t there. He checked the other one, but it was empty, too.

“I . . . I _lost_ it . . . I’m turning into a werecat freak, _and_ I _lost_ the journal . . .”

Unable to help himself, he covered his eyes and began to sob.

****

Nine o’clock came, and with it both Wendy and Soos. Mabel gleefully passed on their assignments, and they went to work—meaning Wendy lounged behind the register with a magazine, and Soos bounced in front of the window. “Tour guide! Tour guide! Tour guide! Dudes, this is awesome! I love these days!”

Norman shuffled around for a bit, then finally mustered the courage to ask, “So . . . Did either of you guys see Dipper on your way in?”

Glancing up, Wendy asked, “He go out early again? Huh . . . I didn’t see him, but he goes out early like this all the time.”

“But doesn’t he usually come back before now? Isn’t it a little weird?”

“Well, yeah . . . But Dipper’s all about the weird,” Wendy pointed out breezily. “He’s prob’ly investigating some zombies or something.”

Norman blanched. “_Has something disturbed the Undead_?!” he squeaked.

“Wait, didn’t those turn out to be a bunch of Gnomes in a costume?” Wendy recalled vaguely.

“They kidnapped me so I’d be their queen,” Mabel chimed in from the corner, where she was knitting furiously. “Jerks.”

“Heh. You guys have some crazy funny stories . . . But then again, that thing with the ghosts was real . . .” Wendy looked thoughtful for a moment, and then dismissed the subject with a shrug.

“And . . . and it d-doesn’t worry you guys that he hasn’t come b-back yet?” Norman stammered.

“Dude is wise and wily beyond his years,” Soos affirmed solemnly. “Like me.”

“Stop worrying, Paintbrush. Dipper can handle weird. Now, what’s _really_ weird is that the mail hasn’t come yet. Usually it’s here by now . . .”

Staring at her in disbelief, as if he couldn’t comprehend why Wendy was more worried about late mail than Dipper’s prolonged absence, Norman just gaped. Behind him, though, Soos narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “That is cause for alarm . . .”

“Not _this_ again, Soos,” Wendy said in exasperation. “I’ve told you before the Mailman’s _just_ really hairy. He’s like my dad’s cousin, or something.”

Soos said nothing, but he eyed the mailbox.

“Didn’t Stan want you to repair the golf cart or something?” Wendy suggested. She then promised, “I’ll call if anyone shows up for the tour.”

Soos departed, but not before whispering to Mabel, “Watch the mailbox, Hambone.”

Norman glanced out the door at it, but it looked like any other mailbox. He peered into the woods, but saw nothing among the trees. He paced around for a while, fidgeting with and dusting things nervously, but no one said anything. Knitting needles clicked fiendishly as Mabel worked. Wendy paged through article after article. Finally, Norman couldn’t take it anymore.

“D-does Stan do this Bigfoot thing often?”

“Whoa, Paintbrush,” Wendy said leisurely. “First rule of the Mystery Shack—”

Norman interjected, “Yeah, yeah, we don’t talk about the Bigfoot thing. Fine. Second rule, too. Third rule: no refunds and no outside food. I know. I get it. I just want to know if he does it often.”

“He’s done it a couple of times since I started working here . . .”

Soos appeared in the doorway. “The funny thing is the sightings always continue after he stops,” he stated, continuing the conversation. “Like the Bigfoots know someone’s impersonating them, and they come looking for him. Creepy. Also, Dipper’s back. He’s in the kitchen.”

“What?! Finally!” Norman exclaimed, jumping up. He sidled past Soos, and ran down the hall. “Hey, Dipper, you’ll never guess! I met a _new one_ on the way over, and—”

Norman stopped on the threshold and starred.

In the kitchen, Dipper was on his hands and knees and digging through the cupboards. But when Norman entered, Dipper froze and looked guiltily up. He had a can in his mouth.

“You . . . okay?” Norman asked.

“Um . . . Yah, ov corth,” Dipper said as casually as is possible for a person on their knees and with a can in their mouth. He spat it out, and it clattered on the floor. “Just looking for the . . . yeou know, the can opener . . .”

“It has a pop-top,” Norman pointed out.

“Oh? I didn’t see that . . . Guess that’s why I need . . . _delicious tuna_!” Dipper salivated suddenly. “Brain food, right? Gotta love the brain food. Gotta have it. Neow! So, er . . . maybe yeou could open it? I . . . can’t seem to get it . . .”

“Don’t you hate tuna? You told me once it tastes like cat barf.”

“Neope. I’ve always loved tuna. Tuna is delicious. Who doesn’t love tuna? So . . . are yeou gonna open it, or what?”

Norman blinked down at Dipper, who was still kneeling on the ground. Slowly, Norman bent down and picked up the can. With bright, wide eyes—eyes that looked way too bright and definitely way too wide—Dipper watched expectantly. Even twitchily.

“You . . . want a fork?” Norman asked hesitantly.

“Mmme_yeah_! Of course! I’m neot a . . . _not_ a wild_ animal_, right? Heh heh, um . . .”

Selecting one from the drawer, Norman then popped the can open. But before he could hand them over, Dipper was on his feet and snatching them away with a toothy grin. Then he gobbled, spearing thick chunks of the fish until only a little liquid remained in the can—which he lapped up.

“Thanks, Norrrmeon!” Dipper purred. Then, seeing his friend’s bewildered expression, added, “Didn’t get breakfast this meorning. I was starving.”

“Where’d you go, anyway?”

“Er . . . thought I saw something on Meount—cough, cough, sorry _Mount_—Immovable,” Dipper quickly corrected himself. “What about yeou?” he asked hurriedly. “Something about a new ghost?”

“Y-yeah. You . . . wanna see where? Let’s go get Mabel, and I can introduce you guys.”

Dipper assured him in a rush, “Heck yeah I wanna see!”

Turning, Norman was almost out of the kitchen when suddenly Dipper pounced on his foot! Nearly tripping, he managed to catch himself against the doorpost. “Dipper . . . w-what are you doing?” he asked, utterly befuddled.

With a shoelace tightly grasped in both hands, Dipper seemed to be gloating to himself, “Haha! Got the string!” But, at the sound of his friend’s voice, he froze, then flurried to tie it. Bounding upright, he explained lamely, “Yeor shoe was untied? I was just meaking the sure the string didn’t get away . . . from the knot.”

“Dipper, are . . . are you alright?” Norman asked worriedly.

But then, in a blur of color, Mabel came twirling and trumpeting into the hall. “HEY GUYS! I JUST FINISHED MY NEWEST CREATION! NORMAN! DIPPER! CHECK OUT MY NEW SWEATER! IT HAS _FRINGE_!”

With arms spread wide, she spun to a halt before the two boys. But her sweater did not, for long pieces of fringe dangled from the sleeves. They whipped through the air, and Dipper saw _all_ of them—every single one. “St-string everywhere . . .” he whispered, near catatonic. “S-so meuch . . . _string_ . . .”

“What do you guys think?!” she gushed, gesturing at the pattern she’d knitted across the chest. Against a field of tawny brown—the color of brown grass on the plains—it showed a smiling Sioux chief riding a smiling pinto unicorn under a rainbow. “I call it ‘Geronirainbow’! Isn’t it _magnificent_?!”

At a genuine loss for words, Norman just gaped, “Gya . . .”

“St-_string_ . . .” Dipper stammered.

“But does it have enough fringe, you think?” Mabel asked seriously. “I could always add more; I’ve got plenty of yarn,” she asserted, even pulling a ball from her pocket.

That was when Dipper lost it. Yowling, “_STRING_!” he dove forward, snagging the yarn with both hands and sinking his teeth into it! Mabel squealed and let it go! Norman jumped back, slack-jawed! Between them both, his words muffled by the yarn, Dipper snarled, “Ow dare y’exthitht! Ahl kill yeoo, thtupid thring! _Ahl kill yeoo_! Omnomnom!”

“D-Dipper . . .” Mabel began hesitantly. “Are you feeling alright?”

His shockingly dilated eyes flashed to her, and she stumbled back. Rigid with self-consciousness, Dipper pulled the yarn off his teeth. “Yes . . .” he answered slowly. “Why do yeou ask?”

“You’re eating my yarn, and your eyes look . . . _different_ . . . And you’re talking kinda strange . . .”

“Oh, just . . . having some allergies?” Dipper tried lamely.

“We’re not allergic to anything,” Mabel countered.

“And this . . . string . . . is totally the wrong color,” Dipper invented frantically. “It doesn’t even meatch the . . . rainbow thing . . . ahaha . . . .”

“Is something wrong with your butt?” Norman broke in. “It’s . . . twitching like there’s something in the back of your shorts . . .”

“Um . . .” Dipper’s eyes shifted from his sister to his friend; both looked downright frightened. He didn’t know why, but he panicked then. “BATHROOM!” he shouted suddenly, jumping past them and scrambling up the stairs.

“Grab him!” Mabel cried, lunging for her brother.

Too slippery, however, Dipper not only eluded them, but had time to lock the bathroom door behind him. He heard them slam into it, heard them yelling at him, but he wasn’t listening. He had just caught sight of his reflection in the mirror . . .

Round, yellow eyes that were so, _so_, _soooo_ large peered back at him. And there was his tail, which had twitched free of his shorts. Tugging off his cap, his pointed ears sprung forward to attention; they were also so, _so_, soooo big. And his hands had claws now. Stumbling back, he sank onto the nearest seat (the toilet) and just stared at them. “It’s getting worse . . .” he murmured despairingly. “Oh _man_, it’s getting _worse_ . . .” Covering his eyes, he tried to shut out reality—shut out the transformation that was happening to his body even now, shut out the way Norman and Mabel had looked at him, shut out that he had lost the journal and had no idea what to do, shut out the tears that were threatening to overcome him—and told himself, “There has to be a way to fix this. Just keep calm and think. _There has to be a way to fix this_. Yeou just need to get the journal back. Stay calm—just stay calm.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Mabel whispered to Norman. Then she raised her voice and called, “Alright, Dipper, we understand you need some space! We’re _not_ going to wait out here to tackle you! We’re going downstairs until you’re ready to talk!” And then she stamped on the ground, hard at first, but gradually softer. “Now he’ll think we’ve left,” she whispered with a wink to Norman.

“I can hear you, Mabel,” Dipper said through the door. “I know you’re still there, and I’m not coming out.”

“Curse him!” Mabel exclaimed. “He’s always a step ahead!”

“Dipper, what’s wrong?” Norman asked anxiously. “You’re kinda freaking us out.”

_Freak._ The word made Dipper’s blood run cold. They couldn’t know! _Never_!

“N-nothing!” Dipper answered. “Just . . . just gotta use the bathroom! Meight be in here awhile! Yeou guys should go about yeour business . . . I know . . . uh, I am . . .” And then he flushed the toilet. For good measure.

“Ew, _gross_!” Mabel snapped. “Okay, fine! If you wanna be a freaky butthead, then we’ve got better stuff to do! Call us when you’re ready to act like a grownup!” And she raspberried . “Let’s go, Norman. Maybe Soos has something grownup for us to do.”

“B-but . . .” he protested as Mabel pulled him away.

Minutes passed before Dipper finally dared to look out the door. Norman and Mabel were gone, so he padded stealthily up to the attic. “Okay, I’ve got mey tail stuffed down mey shorts. And, if I keep mey hat low, I can hide mey ears and mey eyes. Now I just need something for mey hands, and I can go find that journal . . .”

He burst into the room, and the first thing to catch his eye was a pair of “knittin’ kitten mittens” lying on Mabel’s dresser. They were her handiwork, alright—complete with whiskered faces and ears—and they seemed to be grinning up at him.

“Meaybe . . . something else . . .”

But tearing through his half of the room produced nothing. No gloves. Not even sport gloves.

“Curssse mey academeic nature!” he hissed. And then he stopped. “Did I seriously _hiss_ just now? Oh _meown_, I really need to find that book neow. Now. _Dang it_. . .”

The “knittin’ kitten mittens” grinned at him.

“But there meust be _something_ else . . .” he reasoned, looking around the room.

They grinned.

“_Anything_ else . . .” he pleaded with the universe.

Like cheshire cats.

“_Nothing_ else?”

Grins.

Glaring at the mittens, he slipped them on. They looked adorable, and that depressed him.

Dipper tried to creep downstairs then, but Norman was waiting for him there. Norman looked up, genuine worry in his eyes. “So . . . are you okay?”

“Who, meow?” Dipper tried casually. “Yeah. Fine. No problems here, Normeon!”

“What’s with the gloves?”

“Oh, uh . . . well . . . It’s cold. Yep. Really cold. Purrr . . . I mean, _brrr_.”

Mabel emerged from the shadows in a different, darker sweater. “A likely story . . . Heeey . . . aren’t those my knittin’ kittens? Why are _you_ wearing them? They’re adorable, and you _hate_ adorable.”

Laughing nervously, Dipper tried to edge towards the door. “What? A guy can’t be cold, or something around this joint?”

Scowling at him, Mabel crossed her arms. “You’re acting really freaky strange,” she accused him. “It doesn’t take a rocket’s brain surgeon to see that something fishy is going on here.”

“_Fish_?” Dipper couldn’t help but repeat.

Norman laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. “We’re just worried about you.”

“Worried? Ahahah! What? Why?” Dipper giggled grimly. “No, really, guys! I’m completely fine! Fit as a . . . well, not a _fiddle_, but as fit as something that’s really fit! Ahahaha . . . ha . . .”

“Then you won’t mind returning my knittin’ kitten mittens,” Mabel challenged him.

Blanching, Dipper backed away. “Uh . . . Actually, I would meind . . .”

“So you’re _not_ completely fine.”

“No! Yes!” Dipper countered agitatedly.

“Dipper,” Norman interjected carefully, “since when do you have a tail?”

“WHAT?!” Looking over his shoulder, Dipper discovered to his horror that his tail had twitched free again! In that instant, Mabel seized one of his hands and yanked the mitten away—revealing his new claws! Dipper tried to hide in the shadows, but that caused his dilated pupils to glint inhumanly.

“Buh! Dipper, what’s _happened_ to you?!” Mabel demanded.

“I . . . I . . . REOW!” and he dove forward between them! His hat was knocked askew, but he dashed on anyway! Out the back door, across the clearing, and into the woods!

Norman and Mabel tried to follow, shouting for him to stop. “WE JUST WANT TO HELP YOU!” But he didn’t stop. He just ran, and so they tried to catch him.

From the shed, Soos saw the whole thing. “Mailman goes missing, or is at least late for some reason . . . Dipping Sauce comes back late, acts weird, then has a tail and pointed ears . . .” he mused to himself. “_Oh_ _no_! Dude turned Dipping Sauce into a _werewolf_!”

****

At campsite 4 of Resting Body Campground, Toby Determined—Gravity Falls resident “accredited journalist”, and Editor, Publisher, Reporter, Photographer, and Paperboy of _The Gossiper_ (Gravity Falls own “newspaper”)—inquired, “And you say you saw Bigfoot in this campground?”

“Not just in the campground, but in our campsite!” the camper insisted.

“In our _cooler_!” his wife wept hysterically. “It was horrible! He took all our ham sandwiches! What will we eat for lunch?!”

“It’s alright, dear. We can always buy more ham.”

“But they don’t sell Kraft Real Mayo in this town!”

“That is a fact I can independently verify,” Toby Determined stated. “We only have Dukes.”

“No! _No_! _Noooo_!”

****

Mabel and Norman looked and looked and looked in every direction around the Mystery Shack. Hours passed, but they had no luck; there were just too many places where someone could hide. Norman suggested at one point, “We could drag some yarn behind us, maybe? Dipper seems to really like yarn right now . . .” But he thought better of it after a couple minutes. “Tricking him out won’t help. We’ve gotta convince him we want to help—and yes, I _know_ Gruncle Stan says that’s the ultimate trick, but we really _do_ want to help Dipper because we’re his friends, so it’s _not_ a trick.”

The sun was high overhead when suddenly Norman stopped.

“What is it?” Mabel asked. “Ghosts? Bears? Ghost bears?”

“Don’t you hear that? Like . . . maybe a kitten hiccupping?”

“Sounds more like a kitten crying . . . It’s gotta be Dipper!”

But they couldn’t find him behind any of the tree trunks or hidden in the bushes. And then a leafy twig fell from above, its leaves impaling themselves in Norman’s hair. Looking up, he saw Dipper on a bough high above the ground—curled up so that his arms hugged his knees to his chest. He had been watching them sullenly for some time with huge, yellow eyes.

“I wasn’t _crying_,” he sulked. His tail hung from the edge of the bough, and it was twitching. “Even if I _was_, though . . . I don’t cry, or hiccup, or sneeze, or do _anything_ like a _kitten_!”

“You have cat ears and a tail!” Mabel exclaimed. “That is so adorable!”

“Neo, it’s neot!” Dipper yowled. “I’m a _freak_, okay?!”

“Mabel, you’re not helping!” Norman snapped. Then, looking up at his friend in the tree, he pleaded, “Dipper, please come down.”

“Neo.”

“Please?”

“Neo! Go away! I’m better up here . . . on mey own. Just leave the . . . _freak_ alone . . .” Dipper turned away and covered his eyes.

“You’re not a freak!”

“Yes, I am! Look at meow! I’m a _werecat_!” Dipper sobbed. “I’m . . . I’m _dangerous_ . . .”

“No, you’re not,” Norman contested gently. “You’re just Dipper.”

“Yeou don’t understand . . . I just . . . I just wanna be alone . . .”

“But I _do_ understand,” Norman asserted quietly. “I do understand what it’s like to feel different and dangerous . . . to feel like no one understands or wants to understand, or even wants me around . . . to just wanna be alone . . . But that never helps anything!” he called up more fiercely. “It was _you_ who taught me that, remember? _You’re_ the one who told me being alone and miserable wouldn’t help anything. _You_, Dipper, told me I wasn’t a freak! _You_ told me my . . . ability was a gift—that it was cool, that it was useful, that it wasn’t freaky. _You_ told me you were my friend . . . Remember?”

High up in the tree, Dipper didn’t say a word. But he did look at Norman. And so too did Mabel, as if she had never before seen this beanpole of a boy with the black hair that would only spike upward. His blue eyes, normally downcast, were upturned and determined. Focused on Dipper, they were bright.

“Well, now _I_’m telling _you_ that I’m your friend!” Norman continued ardently. “_I_’m telling _you_ that being alone and miserable won’t help anything! _I_’m telling _you_ that you’re not a freak! Whatever is going on right now can be cool and useful!”

“Neo! It’s . . . really scary . . .” Dipper admitted. “It _scares_ meow . . .”

“Then we can fix it together, if you want to! But _I_’m telling _you_ that I’m _your_ friend, and I’ll help! I’ll do whatever it takes to help!”

“And so will Mabel!” she added.

“And so will Mabel,” Norman agreed. “The point is . . . we’re your friends, Dipper. We’re not gonna leave you alone . . . So please come down.”

Biting his lip, Dipper hesitated. “I . . . I can’t . . .”

“Sure you can.”

“Neo, I mean I really can’t. I’m stuck. I can’t get down on mey own . . .”

“What? But you got up there on your own!” Mabel insisted.

Embarrassed, Dipper muttered, “Yeah, well . . . It’s a cat thing . . .”

“Um . . . I’ve got tuna?” Norman tried, uncomfortable with the falsehood.

But Dipper was already on the ground, and eagerly in front of Norman. “Tuna? _Really_?”

“Um . . . no,” Norman admitted awkwardly. “B-but I can get some back at the Shack . . . I do have your hat, though,” he offered, producing it from a pocket. “I thought you might want it . . .”

Dipper accepted it back gratefully. “Heh ._ . _. Thanks, Normeon.”

“Don’t mention it.”

A moment of awkward silence passed while they all stood around, not looking at each other nor at anything in particular.

“I mean it, though . . .” Dipper mumbled. “Thanks for . . . what yeou said . . .”

“R-really, don’t need to mention it,” Norman said clumsily. He had already reddened slightly. “That’s just what friends are for . . .”

“Alright, you two: awkward bro hug, and then awkward sibling hug,” Mabel dictated briskly. “C’mon now. Chop-chop.”

And so Dipper hugged Norman—“Pat! Pat!”—and then he hugged Mabel—“Pat! Pat!” Afterward, he straightened his hat and said, “Now, I believe I was promised _meowthwatering tuna_.”

“Pffeh heh . . . ahem . . .”

Dipper wiped his salivating mouth and corrected himself, “Um, that’s _mouth_watering . . . mouthwatering _tuna_. Don’t laugh! I’m turning into a werecat! It’s a serious problem.”

Mabel’s stomach rumbled. “Ooo . . . Yeah, I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Norman admitted. “Let’s go get some lunch before we decide what to do next . . ."

****

A stump made the perfect place to sit, and sit Stan did. After unzipping the top of his costume and pulling back the mask, he laughed to himself. “Ha! _Four_ sightings already, and I know at least _three_ of them got pictures . . . I’ve _earned_ my lunch!”

From a pocket, he pulled some plastic-wrapped bundles. They proved to be ham sandwiches.

“Mmm . . . Oh baby, these have got to be the _best_ ham sandwiches ever! What’s that tangy aftertaste? Is that Kraft Real Mayo?” He took another bite. “Yep, gotta be. _Wow_, rich outoftowners with Kraft Real Mayo who understand sandwich craftsmanship. So many people don’t realize that it’s all in the mayonnaise . . . Hey, who am I talking to?”

****

The kids didn’t really talk on the way back to the Mystery Shack, nor did they really say anything over lunch. They just made tuna sandwiches and ate them—or, more accurately, Norman and Mabel ate the tuna sandwiches while Dipper ate straight out of a can of tuna.

Mabel did grin at her brother as he finished, though, to which Dipper demanded, “_What_?”

“It’s just really _adorable_ the way you lap up the tuna juice.”

“I am _neot_ adorable!” Dipper snarled. “I’m a _werecat_! Half man and half cat! Cats are just domesticated killers who’re _two meals_ away from going feral again! I should know, neow that I am one!”

“Half one,” Norman said with a wry smile.

“Whatever! The point is: I’m neot _adorable_! I’m _ferocious_!”

Norman snorted, but then caught himself. “So . . . how’d this happen?”

Sulkily, Dipper explained about the Eye in Mount Immovable. He told them he’d gone to investigate, but the Werecat had attacked him. Showing them his bandaged left hand, he told them it must have bitten or scratched him. But he’d made it across the river and escaped. Then he transformed.

“Why didn’t you just tell us, Dipstick?” Mabel asked kindly.

“I don’t know . . . I was _scared_ of what yeou’d think of meow, and panicked. I was afraid yeou’d be afraid, so I tried to hide. Neow I wish yeou _were_ afraid . . . Being adorable is a _million_ times worse.” Then he sneezed: a-_tsoo_.

Norman snorted.

“_What_?” Dipper demanded.

“Well, at least your sneezes haven’t changed—no, man, I’m kidding! It’s just a joke.”

“Neot funny,” Dipper pouted.

“But it doesn’t make any sense that you’d hide from _us_,” Mabel insisted.

“It kinda does, actually,” Norman contradicted her thoughtfully. “Cats usually hide when they’re scared or hurt or sick—and Dipper was scared and hurt, and thought he was sick. It was just instinct . . .”

“What, really?” Dipper asked, obviously surprised. “How do yeou know that?”

“My grandma was a cat person. _Is_ a cat person. Whatever.”

“Huh. So I have cat instincts neow?”

Norman shrugged. “I guess. You’re _crazy_ about tuna, even though you used to think it was _gross_. You attack anything that looks like string. You’re sharpening your claws on the table right now.”

Dipper looked at his hands in shock. They were digging into the wood. He snatched them back and then sat on them. “This is _bad_, guys. This is _really_ _bad_.”

“S-stay calm,” Norman told him nervously. “We can fix this, okay? F-first we’ll check the journal; there’s gotta be _something_ in there about werecats, right?”

Ashamed, Dipped looked away. “No, we can’t . . . I lost it.”

“You _what_?!” Norman and Mabel exclaimed together.

“I meust have dropped it somewhere while running from the Werecat!”

Norman buried his face in his hands with a low moan.

“But . . . but you _never_ lose that thing!” Mabel cried. “It’s like _glued_ to you! You _always_ have it! You _sleep_ with it! You take it into the _bathroom_! I’m pretty sure you’re planning on _marrying_ it!”

“That’s neot true, and yeou know it. I’m planning on mearrying Wendy,” Dipper stated defiantly.

Norman looked up at that, but then dismissed it with a visible effort. “Okay, so this _is_ really bad. Really, _really_ bad,” he conceded. “But we just have to . . . have to go out there and find the journal.”

“But it could be anywhere,” Mabel observed hopelessly.

“No. It’ll be between here and Mount Immovable.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dipper said fearfully. “The Werecat’s still out there.”

“And so is Gruncle Stan in the Bigfoot costume,” Mabel shuddered. “Oh, it was nasty.”

Shaking a finger at her, Dipper recited, “First rule of the Mystery Shack . . .”

“Guys, I don’t think we have a choice,” Norman interrupted them seriously. “Unless you want to stay like this forever, Dipper?”

Dipper bit his lip, considering that. On the one hand, there was life as a freakish, if adorable—and he knew Mabel was never wrong when she said something was adorable—werecat; on the plus side, it didn’t have the prospect of being ripped apart by the other, bigger, bloodthirstier Werecat. And claws and tree-climbing skills had to be a plus sooner or later. But on the minus side . . .

“Hold that thought,” he said. Tucking his tail down his shorts, adjusting his hat, and ramming his hands into his pockets, he ran out of the room. But before he reached the shop of the Mystery Shack (where Wendy was), what felt to his keener nose like a wall of knives doused in angry hormones and cheap body spray forced him to a halt. “Myah! Mey _nose_!” he moaned in pain. “It weeps in pain!”

Stumbling to the threshold of the shop, he found Wendy talking and laughing with a teenage boy whose lank hair was unnaturally black, and whose gray hoodie probably hadn’t ever been laundered (just doused in gallons of body spray, until it was probably a hazard to women who were nursing, pregnant, or could become pregnant, and more flammable than gasoline fumes).

“_Robbie_! _Wearer of chemeical weaponsss_!” Dipper hissed quietly.

“You did not!” Wendy was saying to Robbie.

“Yeah, that’s _exactly_ what I said,” Robbie continued to Wendy.

“Shut up!” Wendy laughed, punching his arm.

“No, really. So I showed him _this_.” Pulling down his hoodie a little, Robbie exposed a studded collar. He asked cockily, “What do you think of it, Wendy? Pretty _manly_, huh?”

She snorted, then shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Wait, you _guess_? So you _don’t_ think it’s manly?” Robbie asked defensively.

“I’m not sure collars are what I usually associate with manliness, that’s all.”

“Well, what _do_ you associate with manliness?”

“Oh . . . hunting, I guess? Motorcycles. Carpentry. Chopping down tress. Stuff like that, I guess.”

“Well, maybe I’ll go hunting then,” Robbie said, marching out the door. “I’ll see you later.”

A moment of silence followed, though mostly because Dipper was still struggling to breathe. Once he could, however, he asked, “What’s with Robbie?”

Wendy looked over her shoulder, then smiled lazily. “Hey, Dipper. I guess he’s just being moody. Same old, same old. But where you been? I was worried you wouldn’t show up.”

“_Really_?” Dipper asked, his hear skipping a beat. Then he caught himself, “Er, yeou know meow. Busy, busy, busy . . . with stuff and things . . . Heh . . . Anyway, I need to ask yeou something important.”

“Shoot.”

“Do yeou . . . um, like cats?”

Taking the incongruous question in stride, she replied, “Meh. I’m more of a dog person.”

The world seemed to stop, or perhaps it was just Dipper’s heart. “_D_-_dog_ _person_?”

“Yeah. Big, shaggy dogs. Like Newfoundlands, I guess.”

He imagined telling her the truth—that he loved her, and that he was a werecat—but could only see her squirting him in the face afterward with a spraybottle and then maybe sicking her Newfoundland on him, while Robbie walked up the driveway with a moose on his shoulders. Horror.

“I . . . I have to go . . .” Dipper said as he, heartbroken, ran from the room.

“Uh, okay. Hey, have you seen Soos? He’s been gone all morning!” she called after him, not that Dipper was listening.

Back in the kitchen, Dipper seized Norman and Mabel. “We have to find 3 _right_ _neow_! Wendy hates cats—that’s like _verbatim_ what she said! We have to cure meow, Werecat or neo Werecat!”

Mabel stood up resolutely, “Then we’re gonna need _weapons_.”

****

With a bang, the doors of the Gravity Falls Post Office burst open. “Alright, dudes!” Soos roared like a giant hamster. “I wanna know where the Mailman is, and I’m not leaving ‘til I get some answers!”

Behind the counter, a veteran mailwoman put down some stamps and looked up. Pushing her glassed back onto her wrinkled nose, she wheezed, “Eh? Would that be Mr. Lycanthrope?”

“Is he the Mailman?”

“Well, he’s the mailman who handles delivery, young man.”

“Then I want him!” Soos roared again.

“I’m afraid I can’t say where he is.”

“_Can’t_ say? Or _won’t_ say?!” Soos challenged her. “Don’t toy with me, dude! I’ve got a silver-colored tape measure, and I’m not afraid to use it!” And he snapped it threateningly at her.

“But he hasn’t been in all day. It’s actually quite unusual, and the whole office is worried.”

“Oh . . . Uh, have you checked the dude’s house?” Soos suggested.

“None of us know where he lives,” the old mailwoman replied. “He delivers his own mail.”

Soos mulled that over for a minute. “In that case, I want to buy some stamps.”

“Patriotic roll, or a novelty roll?”

“Patriotic would be fine, thanks. Then I want directions to the nearest shop where I can buy a slingshot, some silver, and some stakeout supplies.”

“Might I suggest across the street?”

Soos looked. Steve’s Shanty of Surveillance, Silver, and Slingshots (est. 1863).

“That’ll do.”

And, shortly after entering the oldest and proudest shop in Gravity Falls, Soos reemerged with sunglasses and a newspaper. Sitting at a bench, he pretended to read while watching the Post Office.

****

“Alright, first we’re gonna want some yarn grenades,” Mabel affirmed.

“Meabel, that’s just a ball of string,” Dipper said impatiently.

“It’s a distractionary weapon.”

“Neo, it’s neot. It’s just string.”

“It distracted you,” Mabel reminded her brother. “And you’re a werecat.”

Dipper sighed. “This is ridiculous.”

“Really? Look at the yarn, Dipper!” she sang as she waved it in his face. “Look at it!”

“Stop that.”

“You’d better grab it before it gets away!”

“Stop it, Meabel.”

“Ooo . . . It’s getting away now . . .”

“Meabel, just stop it.”

“Almost too late! You’d better—”

Glomf! Dipper sank his teeth into the yarn.

“See?” she said with a smug giggle. “Okay, so I’ve got one yarn grenade in each pocket, and one up each sleeve . . . Now I just need to find my . . . Hmm, where is it?”

Norman, after digging under Dipper’s bed, asked, “How about this supersoaker I found?”

Dipper’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “Okay, as a werecat, I can definitely say that’s the meost terrifying weapon ever. That, or a Newfoundland.”

“Newfoundland?” Norman repeated, puzzled. “You mean like . . . the Canadian breed of dog?”

“The _huge_, _shaggy_ Canadian breed of dog!” Dipper burst out. “I mean, why would yeou breed something like that if neot to hunt werecats?!”

“Oookay . . . Do you know where . . . we could find a Newfoundland?” Norman asked slowly. “Because otherwise, I’m gonna stick with the supersoaker.”

“Found it! My GRAPPLING HOOK!” Mabel exalted, holding it on high. “This is like the ultimate weapon. Think about it, guys: on all the Zelda games, once you have the grappling hook, you’ve practically won the game!”

“In fairness, that’s true. And it’s gotta be meore useful than a ball of string,” Dipper declared. “Speaking of which, meay I see one? Purely for research purposes, yeou understand.”

Mabel produced one.

Dipper examined it. Then he sank his teeth into it. “Le’th go, guyth!”

****

The sun crept westward.

At four, Toby Determined released the evening edition of _The_ _Gossiper_. The banner headline read: _Ham Sandwiches with Kraft Real Mayo Come to Gravity Falls, Stolen by Bigfoot_. It included multiple accounts of seven different sightings, with pictures, and a poll on favorite sandwich condiments. After mayonnaise, tomatoes were the favorite, followed closely by lettuce.

At five, the Post Office closed. The Mailman hadn’t come. In defeat, Soos set a course for the Mystery Shack, wondering what he was going to do about the infected and surely dangerous Dipper.

At five ten, a butler entered the lounge of the swankiest hotel in Gravity Falls. He presented a copy of _The_ _Gossiper_ to his employer on a silver platter. The Honorable Safarington Pithelmet was so surprised at the headline that his monocle popped right out. He then rose and addressed his circle of khaki-clad, mustachioed, and bemonocled peers. “MmmGentlemen, we have hunted most every species of bear imaginable, as well as regular lions, mountain lions, and the Detroit Lions. MmmI thought we had found worthy sport on all seven continents. MmmBut I was wrong. MmmWe have not yet hunted the most elusive game of all, so I propose on the morrow we set our sights, not on a Multibear, but on _Magnus Pede_—the creature that the locals call ‘the Bigfoot’. MmmAll in favor: fire your rifles in the air.” By the rain of plaster that followed, it was obvious that they were unanimous. They toasted a successful hunt with goblets of the finest Kraft Real Mayo, and guffawed until bedtime.

At five fifteen, Wendy closed up shop. She thought it was a little strange that everyone else had disappeared all day, but the Shack was all about strange. Her friends swung by, and she left with them.

At five twenty, Soos finally arrived. Despairing, he made himself some ramen, found a book about werewolves in the shop (Where wolf? There wolf! by Marty Feldman), ate his ramen, and then fell asleep while reading the book. Stakeouts are exhausting, after all.

At six, Stan loped into the Shack. It was a relief to remove the costume, and he celebrated with a can of non-diet Pitt and a shower (both of which were a rare occurrence for him). He then decided to order a pizza, and called out, “Hey, kids! What toppings do you want?!” When he received no answer, he surmised, “So we’re all good with half pepperoni and olives, half anchovies and olives?! Alright then!”

At six thirty, the sun began to set. The woods were darkening, and the kids were all exhausted, but had nothing to show for it but blisters. They had gone to the base of Mount Immovable three times, yet found no trace of the Werecat nor of 3.

Mabel summed it up succinctly as they turned home, “That sucked . . .”

“Yeah . . .” Dipper concurred despondently.

After a while, Norman announced, “When we get back, I’ll phone my parents—let them know I’m sleeping over . . . Then we can start again early tomorrow . . .”

“Yeah, great . . .” Dipper mumbled.

“I’m sure we’ll find it tomorrow,” Norman said, trying to cheer Dipper up. “And it will have the cure and everything.”

“Yeah, sure . . .” Dipper responded vaguely. “And here we are back at the river . . . _Joy_ . . .”

“C’mon, we’ve already crossed it a bunch of times,” Norman reminded him. “It’s not that hard.”

“I’m a _cat_ neow,” Dipper reminded him. “Just the _thought_ of water . . . Yeowck!”

“Stone to stone!” Mabel sang, brightening up a little. “Just jump, jump, jump! This should be easy for you with a tail!”

They all managed to get across, though Dipper did so very stiffly. At one point, his hand was splashed, and he shook it off vigorously and with evident disgust.

Norman laughed, then so did Mabel. Eventually, Dipper did too.

“Felling better?” Norman asked consolingly.

“Yeou know . . . I kinda am. Meaybe it’s knowing that we’re going home, or that we don’t have to cross the river any meore, or relief that we haven’t seen the Werecat—”

“Or maybe it’s these pretty purple flowers!” Mabel interjected, seizing two handfuls of them.

Rolling his enormous, glinting, yellow eyes, Dipper replied sarcastically, “Yes, Meabel or meaybe it’s all the pretty purple flowers . . . which . . . admeittedly smell _really_ nice . . .” He leaned in, burying his face in them, and inhaled deeply. “Rrrealy nice . . .”

Norman took them from Mabel (who was only too glad to pass them and her brother off) and examined them closely. “Hey, I recognize this plant. My grandma had it all over the place. It’s catnip.”

“C-_catnip_?” Dipper’s eyes zeroed in on it with fully dilated pupils.

“Y-yeah . . .” Norman stammered, suddenly realizing what that meant.

GLOMPF! Dipper took it all in one, fanged mouthful.

“D-_Dipper_! I don’t think that was a g-good idea!” Norman stammered. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that was the _worst_ idea you’ve ever had in a long series of bad ideas!”

But Dipper wasn’t listening. He was shivering all over. “This stuff . . . is DELCIOUS!” he suddenly yowled throatily. “So good, I wanna RUB IT ALL OVER MEY BODY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Gabbing nonsense happily, he plunged into the flowers and rolled back and forth through them. Then he started making angels in them, still laughing. Norman and Mabel tried to remove him bodily from the catnip, but he pulled out of their grip only to plow back in every time. Eventually, they decided just to wait him out. Soon his rolling became sluggish, then he lay there giggling and purring. “Yeou guys seriously gotta try this stuff . . . It’s the _best_ . . . I can’t feel mey _anything_ . . . I’ll prove it! Rub mey belly! ”

Somewhat discomfited by that proposition, Norman asked, “Uh . . . c-can you stand up?”

“Hehehehe . . . Yeou said ‘_stand’_ . . .” Dipper giggled.

“Oh boy . . . I think I gotta carry him,” Norman realized heavily. “Can you take the supersoaker?”

“We could just squirt him,” Mabel suggested.

“Hehehe . . . _Squirt_! Classic!” And then Dipper yawned cavernously.

Handing the supersoaker to Mabel, Norman replied, “I don’t think that’d help. C’mon, buddy,” he said to Dipper, seizing an arm and then slinging him piggyback.

“Wheeeow! Ha . . . Like ‘meow’ . . .” Dipper laughed and mewed and yawned all at once.

“You’re nuts . . .” Norman grunted as he heaved himself forward.

“Hehe . . . Yeah . . . I dunno why yeou guys even put up with meow . . . Hehe . . .”

Mabel shook her head. “I’m not all that sure right now either.”

“Neaw . . . neaw, I mean . . . even normeally . . . Don’t know . . . what I’d do without you guys . . . I _love_ you guys! Hehehe . . . Love you, Meabel . . .”

“I love you, too. You dip dippy Dipstick-Dipper,” she said, exasperated but sincere.

“Love you, Norrrmeon . . .” And he sloppily kissed Norman’s cheek.

Surprised, Norman went scarlet and almost fell over sideways. He hoped it was too dark for anyone to notice.

“Said . . . I _love_ you, Norrrmeon!” Dipper repeated, insistent if increasingly lethargic.

Breathlessly, Norman croaked back, “L-love you, too . . . Dipper . . .”

“Don’t know . . . why yeou do . . .” Dipper went on, sleepily nestling against his friend’s back. “Mmm pushy ‘n’ high-string—_strung,_ wh’ever . . . Neo fun, n’like Meabel . . . Thoughtless . . . n’like yeou, thoughtful I mean . . . Yeou’re so _warrrm_ . . .” And, really purring, he laid his chin on Norman’s shoulder and rubbed his face against Norman’s crimson cheek. He was asleep seconds later.

“Well . . . That happened,” Mabel said after a minute. “Awkward, huh?”

“Y-yeah . . . awkward . . .” Norman panted, though he was smiling to himself in the dark.

A few minutes later—a little after seven—the Shack came into sight.

“I’ll distract Gruncle Stan,” Mabel whispered conspiratorially. “You get Dipper into bed.”

“S-sure thing . . .” Norman said, now too red from exertion to blush any further.

And then Mabel skipped into the living room, lilting, “Hi, Gruncle Stan!”

“Wha! Change channel! _Change channel_!” Stan hissed to himself. “To . . . this football game! Yes, I was watching a football game.”

“We’re back from doing innocent kid things! Teehee! The boys already went upstairs, and Norman is sleeping over!”

While struggling up the stairs, Norman heard the answer. “My shock, it is great. Hi, Paintbrush!”

“H-hi!” Norman shouted back.

“Hey, Dipping Sauce!”

Starting awake suddenly, Dipper flailed forward and shouted, “Onwards, Meowshima!”

“Grah!” Thump!

Stan glanced towards the stairs quizzically, then at Mabel. She was beaming innocently at him. “So . . . tell me, Mabel Syrup, you kids have fun doing . . . whatever?”

“Always! And you? That’s _swell_! Goodnight, Gruncle Stan!” And she kissed his stubbly cheek.

“Oookay . . . Here’s some pizza to take up.”

“Thank you, Gruncle Stan!” While lifting the lid to look inside, she asked, “So what’s on—Buh! What are _these_ _fish_ _things_?! How . . . perfect . . . _Purrrfect_, hehehe! Thanks!” And with that, she tore up after the others.

Stan sipped from his beverage. “So . . . business as _un_usual—Ha!—with those little gremlins . . .” he surmised as he furtively changed channels back to the Black-and-White-Period-Piece-Old-Lady-Boring-Movie-Channel. Tonight’s feature was Of Viscounts and Barons.

After heaving Dipper onto his bed, Norman collapsed onto the floor. Breathing hard, he checked his phone for the first time all day. 5 missed calls. “Dang . . .”

Then Mabel burst in, chorusing, “We’ve got PIZZA! There’s peperoni and olives for you and me, Norman, and there’s anchoives or whatever these weird fish things are for Dipper!”

Dipper’s head lolled around, and he blinked sleepily at her. “Fish things?”

“Cool . . .” Norman gasped.

“Now let’s put the mattresses together on the floor!”

“In a minute . . . I probably need to . . . call my parents now . . .”

“Oooo, yeah . . . I’ll just sit here quietly and eat while you do that . . . Here’s one for you, Dipper. I bet I can fit this entire piece in my mouth, but you can’t!”

Norman pressed redial, calling his house. After a moment, the call connected. To his disappointment, it was a man’s voice that answered. “Hello?”

“H-hi, Dad. It’s me.”

“Norman? Where have you been all day? I’ve been trying to call for _hours_.”

“I know. S-sorry. We were in the woods, and the reception’s b-bad in there.”

“Reception’s bad in there . . .” his father sighed. “We were waiting for you, you know? Worried.”

“D-didn’t mean to make you worry,” Norman said, ashamed. “We were just . . . having fun, and didn’t realize how late it was. Can I . . . can I stay over here for the night?”

“You’re not going to freak them out with your talking to ghosts are you?”

“N-no, Dad,” Norman promised meekly. Sadly.

“Wait, it’s those _Pines_ kids, right? I guess that wouldn’t freak _them_ out, would it?”

Somewhat more defiant now, Norman answered, “No, Dad. _They’re_ not freaked out by me.”

“Well, good . . . I guess. Don’t stay up too late, and call us in the morning. Night, Norman.”

“. . . Night, Dad,” he said at last, and then hung up. Turning heavily, he began, “I can stay—”

And then a ball of yarn hit him in the mouth. “YARN GRENADE FIGHT!” Mabel bellowed.

“No fair! You’ve got all the yarn!” Norman shouted back.

She threw one at Dipper, who watched it bounce off his face impassively, and then another at Norman. “That’s what you get for not recognizing an arms race when it’s staring you in the face!”

“Yarns race!” Norman retorted.

And when Mabel shouted, “Exactly!” he dove for the supersoaker.

“W-water!” Dipper startled, dodging behind the bed. “Hisss! I call neo water! _Neo water_!”

****

The soporific effect of the sun had long passed, and it was now past midnight. Deep sleep gave way to dreams, but they were troubled dreams. Not all was right . . .

Mount Immovable stirred from its doze and looked sleepily down upon the valley. In its slow mind, it wondered what was amiss. And so it looked closer . . .

The Very Small Ones slept piled together and under denim blankets in their dell . . .

The Scaly Ones slept in the rivers and the lakes, never knowing cold . . .

The Hulking Ones slept on beds of stone punched soft . . .

And all the other children of this land slept, or woke and went about their business in accordance with their natures. No, naught was amiss with the children of the land, so Mount Immovable looked elsewhere . . .

1 was where it ought to be . . .

2 was with its new keeper, the Child of Mind and Looks—the child like a piglet . . .

And 3 . . . 3 had been lost from its keeper . . . And in a time of great need, no less . . .

Where?

3 was lost in the forest, not forgotten, but lost all the same . . .

And its keeper?

The Child of Stars and Earth slept fitfully in his shelter, changing into something different, something foreign and frightening to its kind . . . So _that_ was his need . . .

But he was not alone, for the Child of Rainbows and Heart and the Child of Spirits and Words were yet, as always, with him . . .

So small and young and easily frightened, these three children, like all the others of their kind and like all the kinds of others, really . . . All of them were here, then gone, it seemed. Yet it was the duty of Mount Immovable to protect their world through its dreams . . .

And these three children, they had given it such pleasant dreams of late . . .

So it would protect _their_ world especially . . .

Mount Immovable shut its eye and dreamed of the three children . . .

****

Insomnia sucks.

Exhausted, yet unable to sleep deeper than a doze, Norman lay there and looked at the others. Mabel was on one side of the mattresses, with most of the blankets wrapped around her and Waddles burrito style. Dipper lay between Mabel and Norman, curled up into a ball and with both his tail and his hands—looking more and more like furry paws—over his face.

“Couldn’t look like more of a kitten if you tried . . .” Norman said huskily.

In his sleep, Dipper inched closer, curling against Norman’s side. But Norman didn’t mind at all. Under the impulsiveness of sleep deprivation, he reached over and stroked Dipper between the ears—stroked his curly shag of brown hair.

“Mya?” Dipper stirred slightly. “Y’asleep?”

“Yeah,” Norman whispered. “This is my dream. Nice, huh? Go back to sleep.”

“Y’have . . . teoo . . .”

“Shhh . . . I am . . . Shhh . . .” And Norman stroked Dipper between the ears, until, purring softly, Dipper closed his eyes and slept again.

Sighing contentedly, Norman looked up at the ceiling.

Then he blinked in confusion. There was something hazy and blue floating above him, something looking down at him . . . It was unlike anything he had ever seen . . .

“You a ghost? A spirit? What do you need of me?” he asked of the blue thing.

It waved once at Norman, and Norman fell instantly asleep. He even slept through the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The Honorable Safarington Pithelmet and his peers breakfasted together in the lounge of the swankiest hotel in Gravity Falls. Once they had all finished, and the butlers removed their plates so the waiters could take them away, he rose and addressed his peers. “MmmGentlemen, this morning we shall hunt real game, ‘the Bigfoot’. MmmLet us all now toast a successful and sporting hunt, and then vow never again to touch this kingly nectar until we have taken the beast. MmmAll in favor: fire your rifles into the air.”

Once again, a shower of plaster proved the motion unanimous. They toasted once more with goblets of the finest Kraft Real Mayo, and then impetuously hurled the goblets to the ground.

“MmmTallyho!”

****

Rising from bed, Stan stretched and grinned. “I’ve got a good feeling about today,” he declared. “Now where’s that Bigfoot costume?”

****

Norman was vaguely aware that something was missing, so he dreamed of looking for it, though he wasn’t sure what it was exactly. He had the sense that it was really obvious—like it should be right under his nose, but wasn’t. He was so keen on finding it that he even woke briefly to look around the attic room, but it wasn’t there. So he went back to sleep.

Wait . . . That wasn’t right . . . It was supposed to be in the attic, but it wasn’t . . .

So he needed to look there again to see what was missing.

Waking a second time, Norman blinked in the morning light and strove to see what was missing. And then it clicked that no one was sleeping next to him. “Dipper?” He sat upright. “_Dipper_?”

No answer. Dipper wasn’t there.

Grabbing Mabel by the shoulder, he shook her. “Mabel! _Mabel_! Where’s Dipper?”

“Buh? Wha? Aoshima?”

“Mabel, Dipper’s _gone_!”

Regaining consciousness, Mabel exclaimed, “What?! Again?! Where’d he go now?!”

“I don’t know, Mabel! That’s why I’m shouting!” Stumbling out of the tangle of blankets and mattresses, he called out, “Dipper! Answer me!”

“Whah?”

Norman spun. There was Dipper, at the window. On the other side. With a bird in his mouth. Waving. Then he gestured at the latch.

“Mabel, am I still dreaming, or are you seeing that, too?”

Mabel looked, then blinked. “We could both be having the same weird dream,” she suggested. “Or what if your psychic powers rubbed off on me during the night . . . and now we have a mind-link? What if I’m becoming ParaMabel?”

“I’ve told you before, I’m _not_ psychic; I can just see and hear ghosts, and sometimes have visions,” Norman replied impatiently as he approached the window. “There’s a _difference_.”

Once the window was open, Dipper sauntered in. “I caught a birrrd! Prrraise meow!”

“Uh . . . good job?”

“Why’d you kill that bird?” Mabel asked.

“Because it was therrre and I thought . . . well, that Wendy meight like it,” Dipper admitted. “Meight think I’m manly neow that I hunt, and decide to be a cat person. Or at least a Dipper person . . . Do yeow think she’ll like it? I think it’s a quail. It’s got this stupid feather like a funny hat that meakes it rrreally easy to hunt,” Dipper went on gabbily. “I’ve alrrready killed two other birds and left them at the cashierrr for herrr . . . Should I leave some flowers too? Soos is sleeping in the shop, by the way.”

Norman just stared.

Mabel said, “Um . . . sure?”

“Alright, I’ll go pick some!” Dipper declared energetically. And he went right out the window.

Norman turned around to face Mabel. He was paler than usual. “Did you . . . see his hands? They’re _furry_. He’s getting cattier, Mabel. We have to find that journal _today_.”

Mabel stared at him for a moment, then giggled to herself.

“_What_?” Norman demanded.

“Nothing. You’re right. Just a girl thing. Heh . . . _catty_ . . .”

****

Stan found Soos sprawled out on the floor of the shop. He debated briefly whether or not he should slip the mask on before waking Soos, but decided to leave it off in a rare act of charity. After a few light kicks, he brought Soos back to the land of the living. “Soos, did you sleep here last night?”

“Um, it would appear that I did, Mr. Pines.”

“Oookay . . . And what were you doing here so late?”

“Just contemplating the inexorable dreadfulness we men of duty must face, Mr. Pines,” Soos answered honestly and with sorrow.

“Oookay . . . Well, don’t make a habit of crashing here, or I’m going to start charging you rent. Same deal as yesterday, but don’t worry about waking the kids because they did a sleepover last night. See you later today.”

“If only you can still bear to look at me at that time . . .” Soos said mournfully.

“I can’t bear to look at you _now_. Ha!” Stan quipped as he zipped up the costume.

****

Filling the supersoaker and wrapping up new yarn grenades, Norman and Mabel prepared grimly for the search. Or Norman, did at least; Mabel was about as grim as the day’s choice of sweater (which featured a bottle of Kraft Real Mayo wearing sunglasses and driving a motorcycle, all under a caption that read “Awesome Sauce!”), and not likely to become any grimmer. Ever.

Pumping the pressure gage to full, Norman began, “Let’s do—”

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Mabel broke in. “Can I say it?! Please! I’ve always wanted to have the hardboiled, tough guy line!”

Norman rolled his eyes.

“Let’s do this,” Mabel said gruffly, and then started giggling. “_Yes_!”

“Can we just go? Now? Please?”

****

Dipper practically skipped into the shop. Once there, he carefully added the third bird to the other two set beside the cash register, and then added a red flower to the pile. He examined the arrangement from several different angles, and then nodded his approval. “Purrrfect . . .”

“Dude . . .”

Dipper spun like lightning, then stopped and tried to look calm. “Soos. Yeou surprised meow. How do yeou meove so quietly?”

“Sorry, I have a tendency to silently loom,” Soos explained apologetically. “I’m sorry I have to now use this gift against you . . .”

“Well, I can neow say that that is an enviable skill. What do yeou think of the dead birrrds? Prrretty _manly_ display of hunting skills, huh?” Dipper bragged. “And the flowerrr’s neot half-bad either. I meust’ve tried like a dozen different flowers, but this kind definitely tastes the best _and_ it clears up hairballs the fastest—a meust for any longhair like Wendy.”

“Forgive me, dude. I do only what I must to protect humanity.”

“That’s nice . . . Wait, what?”

Dipper turned in time to see a remorseful Soos flip a switch. And then a loop of rope snared Dipper’s feet, and he was hanging upside down from the ceiling!

“What the heck, Soosss?!” Dipper hissed. “What are yeou doing?!”

“I am protecting humanity from the werewolf scourge,” Soos stated joyously, pulling a slingshot from his tool belt. “I am sorry that I could find no cure, but rest assured that the beast who infected you shall fall next. I swear, dude, the werewolf Mailman shall be brought to swift, silvery justice.”

“B-but I’m neot a werewolf!”

“Then explain the ears. Explain the tail. The furry hands. The claws. The yellow eyes of a beast.”

Dipper patted his head and felt pointed ears. He looked down to see that his hat had slipped off and fallen to the ground. His tail—_treacherous, twitchy_ _tail!_—had also worked its way free again. Grinning sheepishly (which, he realized a second later, was not a wise move with the fangs), he faltered, “I know this meust look bad, but I can explain . . . Let’s neot do anything hasty . . .”

Loading a pellet of solid silver, Soos drew back the slingshot’s pocket. “Forgive me, dude. I don’t want to do this, but I have to for humanity . . .”

“Wait, Soos! Don’t do thisss!”

And that was when Norman and Mabel descended the stairs.

“Dudes!” Soos blanched. “Look away! I don’t want you to see this!”

“Wha—_No_! SOOS, STOP!” Norman shouted in horror.

“GRAPPLING HOOK!” Mabel bellowed, shooting from the hip. The prongs caught the pocket just as Soos released, and the pellet dropped to the floor! Retracting, the hook ripped the slingshot from his grip, and Mabel caught it out of the air!

Furious, Norman demanded, “_Why_ are you _hunting_ _Dipper_?!”

“Because he has been transformed into a bloodthirsty beast—a _werewolf_! Just look at him!”

“He’s not a were_wolf_! He’s just a were_cat_!”

“Werecat?” Soos repeated skeptically. “Dude, is that . . . is that even a thing?”

“_Look at him_!” Norman snapped. “Slitty pupils! Retractable claws! Cat ears! _Look at the cat ears_! He’s more adorable than bloodthirsty!”

“More like a were_kitten_,” Mabel chimed in.

“_Yeah_!” Dipper chorused. And then that registered. “Wait, neo I’m neot! I’m a ferocious killer! Look at all the birds I caught!”

Rounding on him, Norman shouted, “Not helping!” Turning back to Soo, whom he poked angrily, Norman ranted, “And what if he _was_ a werewolf?! Your solution is to just shoot him before we have a chance to look for a cure, or even know if he’s a danger to people?! I thought you were his _friend_!”

“Well, I—”

“And you do it with _this_?!” Norman went on, incredulously snatching the slingshot from Mabel. “A _slingshot_?! When Stan has like _ten_ guns lying around the place?!”

“He really should put them in a gun safe, or something,” Mabel concurred.

“What the heck, Soos?! Just . . . what the heck?!” Norman concluded.

Hanging his head, Soos mumbled, “Sorry, dudes.”

“Now get him down! Yeesh!” And once Soos had done so, Norman put an arm over Dipper’s shoulders and guided him to the kitchen. There, he poured some milk into a bowl and handed it to Dipper. “Here, drink this. Cats are easily agitated and don’t deal with stress well. And neither do you.”

“_Hey_!”

“Drink it,” Norman ordered.

Receiving it resentfully, Dipper retorted, “I will, but only because _I_ want to—not because yeou want meow to.”

“Fine.”

Sitting cross-legged, Dipper held the bowl to his mouth and began to lap it up noisily.

“So . . . how’d this happen?” Soos asked.

“Dipstick was investigating something on his own yesterday and got attacked by a werecat,” Mabel explained. “Tsk. Can’t let you guys out of my sight for a second.”

“And you know that journal he’s always reading?”

“The one that’s a veritable treasure trove of paranormal information?”

“Yeah. He lost it in the woods while running away.”

“Which is why we’re looking for the journal,” Norman said. “It’s bound to have information about werecats in it. Maybe even the cure. So before we decide to do _anything_, we have to find it.”

“But how are we gonna find it?” Soos asked. “It could be _anywhere_ in the woods!”

“Then we’ll just have to look _everywhere_ in the woods,” Norman said determinedly. “But I’m not stopping until we find it. You guys with me?”

“Yeah!” Mabel and Soos said together.

Silence.

“You in, Dipper? Uh, Dipper?”

“Aw . . . Maybe you should take a look, Norman . . .” Mabel suggested.

And, to Norman’s consternation, Dipper had curled up in a sunbeam and was apparently asleep. It didn’t just merit a face-palm; it merited a double face-palm.

Dipper stirred. “Wha? Been up since five hunting birrrds . . . Sleepy . . . Leave m’alone . . .”

“He wasn’t this bad yesterday,” Soos pointed out anxiously. “I saw.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Norman concurred heavily.

Mabel voiced the obvious, “I don’t think he’ll be that helpful in a search like this . . . And leaving him alone like this is just sending a personal, embossed invitation to trouble.”

“You’re right . . . Okay, Soos, Mabel and I are going to go look, and you’re going to stay here and keep Dipper out of trouble while you hold down the fort.”

“Should I shut him in a room?”

“Absolutely not. He’s not some sort of wild animal.”

“But he’s getting worse. What if he does go wild and try to infect me or Wendy?”

“Somehow, I don’t see _that_ happening,” Norman replied irritably. “And _if_ he does, you’ll just have to restrain him.”

“Dude, I don’t know about this . . .”

“Look, Soos, we don’t have any other options. And we’re wasting time. So Mabel and I are going to find the journal, and you’re going to keep Dipper safe—or, so help me, I’ll make all the ghosts in Gravity Falls haunt you for the rest of your life!”

“Er . . . You’ll do _what_ _now_, dude?”

“You can do that?” Mabel asked in awe.

“Maybe! You wanna risk making me angry enough to find out?!” Norman demanded of Soos.

“No! Chill, dude! I’ll keep Dipping Sauce out of trouble!”

“Promise?”

“I promise. He’ll be safe until you dudes come back.”

“No werecat hunting?” Norman exiged.

“Absolutely no werecat hunting.”

“Okay. I’m holding you to that. Mabel, let’s go. Dipper, you just stay there ‘til we get back.”

As they went out the door, Dipper stirred and mumbled, “Yeou’re not the boss of meow . . .”

****

After swinging near—but not too near—Resting Body Campground, Stan went loping towards Outside Force Campground. If anyone had asked him then how he felt about things, he would have been positive boarding on gleeful and gloating: he'd found his stride, and could maintain it all day if need be; more importantly, he’d heard the excited voices of several different people as he swung by the camp, _and_ of their cameras (which was most important).

What he had not heard, however, was about to ruin the rest of his day.

“MmmGentlemen, ‘the Bigfoot’ has just been sighted!” the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet cried excitedly. “MmmTallyho, I say! MmmTallyho!”

But his butler then appeared in their path. “Pardon the intrusion, sir, but it seems the constables wish to speak with you. They are _quite_ emphatic, I am afraid to say.”

“MmmWhat’s the meaning of all this?”

Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland were indeed most emphatic. The former stormed forward, demanding, “Are you cray-cray?! You can’t hunt a _Bigfoot_!”

“A-right! They’re a protected crypto-species—means they might not exist,” the latter agreed. “The state government even passed a specific law banning hunting them, just in case they _do_ exist.”

Producing a document, the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet contradicted them with an understated smugness, “MmmI think you shall find we have all the necessary permissions, officers.”

Skimming over the paper, the Sheriff whistled softly. “With permission of the State Governor, the Secretary of the Interior, and . . . is that the signature of the President?”

“MmmIndeed, it is. MmmThis is an election year, after all, and contributions aren’t _free_.”

“Am I . . . Am I reading this line right? The one that automatically pardons you for up to six civilian casualties?”

“MmmYes,” the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet replied complacently. “MmmNo one has ever claimed that being of the privileged class was without its privileges.”

“Well then . . . can we get you anything, sir?” the Sheriff asked deferentially.

“Anything at all?” the Deputy chimed in.

“MmmYou need only stand aside, officers. MmmNow, where was I?”

With a respectful bow, the Butler reminded him, “I believe you were saying ‘Tallyho’, sir.”

“MmmRight! MmmTallyho!”

****

Progress was slow as Norman and Mabel—checking under every bush, looking around every tree and boulder—moved towards Mount Immovable. Norman was too intent for much conversation beyond the occasional “Maybe there . . .” or “Not here . . .” or “We’ve _gotta_ find it . . . Keep looking . . .” and so Mabel searched quietly for some time. Besides, she obviously had something to consider . . .

Eventually, however, it spilled out.

“So, Norman, now that we’re alone . . .” Mabel began leadingly. “I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”

Not really paying attention, Norman grunted, “Uh huh?”

“Do you like Dipper?”

“W-what?!” Norman sputtered, before trying to recover, “y-yeah, of course I like you guys! You’re like my best friends, and—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it,” Mabel stated. “You don’t like me like _me_, but you like Dipper like _Dipper_.”

“What?! Ahaha! N-_no_!” Norman denied desperately, though his face was visibly reddening. “What . . . w-what would make you think something totally _crazy_ like that?”

With a knowing, sparkly grin, she listed, “You’re always coming over to hang out with him . . . and me, but mostly _him_,” she added emphatically. “And you smile when he looks at you, and you get all tongue-tied when he talks to you, and you blush if he touches you . . . Like that _kiss_ last night! C’mon, Norman! Tell the truth!” There she grabbed the sleeve of his sweater and began to wave it around as she chanted, “Tell the truth! Tell the truth! Tell the truth!”

“Mabel!” he begged her, his face redder than even his favorite sweater.

“I’m gonna make you cross your heart, and then you’ll have to tell the truth!”

“I . . . I . . .” he stammered before finally bursting out, “Yes, alright?!”

“You like him?” she prompted.

“I . . . I l-_love_ him,” Norman admitted miserably.

“I knew it! Oh my gosh, that is sooo _adorable_!” Mabel squealed. “It’s like . . . like _kittens in love_, which has gotta be a _million_ _times_ more adorable than puppies in love! _Oh my gosh_! How come no one’s ever thought of that before? Not ‘puppy love’, but ‘_kitty_ _love’_! Copyright Mabel Pines.”

Norman halted, and she had to spin to face him. It shocked her to discover that he was crying. “Just . . . just _p-please_ don’t tell _anyone_ . . . My f-father already thinks I’m enough of a _f-freak_ as it is—and everyone else, t-too—without me being . . . being . . .”

“Aw, Norman,” she said compassionately. “Of course I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even _Dipper_?” Norman implored her urgently. “Mabel, you’ve gotta _p-promise_ that.”

“Huh? Why _not_ Dipper?”

“B-because . . . what if it w-weirds him out? What if it makes him not want to s-see me again? It’s not . . . not _normal_, okay?” Norman spat out bitterly. “So what if he _hates_ me for it? You guys are the only real f-friends I have . . . He . . . I’d _die_ if he hated me . . .”

Taking his hand, Mabel stated quietly, “Dipper’s not like that, Norman. He’d _never_ hate you.”

“Just . . . just _p-promise_ you won’t tell him. _Ever_.”

“Aw, I promise. You can count on me. Look!” And she zipped her lips.

“Thanks, Mabel . . .” Norman said with a watery smile. “You’re . . . you’re a good friend . . .”

“Pmaw! Ama-rae-frun!” she hemmed through zipped lips.

“You don’t have to zip your lips,” Norman assured her. “Just don’t talk about you-know-what.”

Unzipping her lips, Mabel said, “I said ‘Pshaw. I’m a _great_ friend.’ And I am!”

“Heh. You really are.”

They started forward again, continuing the search in silence for a moment. But only a moment.

“Do you . . . do you think Dipper knows?” Norman eventually asked.

“_Him_? Pu-leeze!” she scoffed expressively. “He doesn’t have keen observational skills like me, not for what _really_ matters. He still hasn’t noticed I replaced his shampoo with toothpaste weeks ago.”

“_That’s_ why his hair is always so minty fresh!” Norman realized.

“Wait . . . you’ve smelled his hair?” Mabel snorted.

“I’ve _noticed_ that his hair smells minty—there’s a difference. Can we not talk about this?!”

“Oookay . . .” Mabel relented, but not for long. “So when’d you fall for him?”

“I . . . I guess probably from the start . . .” Norman admitted with a shy, little smile.

“You mean like _love at first sight_? Eeeeee! This just keeps getting more and more adorable! There’s only one way it could be more so!” She grabbed his arm and insisted, “Norman, you have to let Dipper bite you—or scratch you, or whatever—so that you both turn into werecats! Then it really will be ‘kitty love’ (Copyright Mabel Pines), and I can make you guys matching sweaters!”

“Um . . . Maybe we should focus on finding the journal right now . . .”

“_Oh, fine_. . . So what happened to make you fall for him?”

Struggling for the words, Norman explained clumsily, “He . . . he _believed_ me right from the start—about me being able to see and talk to ghosts, I mean. _No one_ had ever believed me like that before. I guess there was Neil, but . . . That was different,” he said distantly. “Anyway, my family’d just moved here, to Gravity Falls. Last year, remember? After school started?”

“Oh. That was our first school year here, too,” Mabel remembered with uncharacteristic sorrow. “After our parents . . . the accident . . .”

“Yeah,” Norman affirmed sadly. “Anyway, somehow everyone already knew about me . . . _Everything_ was starting all over again—all the crap like before . . . So I was hiding behind the school, talking to a ghost that needed my help, when Dipper—”

“Was that the guy who wanted to be a comedian, but just wasn’t funny?”

“Yeah. Detoby,” Norman recalled fondly.

“The one that helped all three of us take care of that Slenderman guy?”

“Yeah. Anyway, Dipper just sat down and asked who I was talking to. And when I said no one, Dipper said he knew I was talking to a ghost, and asked who it was. Just like that,” Norman recalled. “Wanted to be introduced . . . I thought he was, y’know, just making fun of me at first, but it was clear he believed all of it after a little while. I asked him why, and he . . . heh . . .” Norman laughed to himself. “He said, ‘A boy who can see ghosts. Makes more sense than half the things I’ve seen in Gravity Falls, _and_ that about half the things I’ve seen here want to make my twin sister their forest queen.’”

“I know!” Mabel concurred. “It seems really surprising that it’s _only_ half, given my irresistibility, but I guess there’s no accounting for the taste of the other half. _Or lack thereof_.”

“Heh. Yeah . . .”

“So that was it? Just that? Or did you think he was _cute_? C’mon, you thought he was cute!” Mabel wheedled amiably.

Blushing anew, Norman confessed, “Well . . . yeah, I do remember thinking that he was cute when I first saw him . . . It just, y’know, popped into my head. Surprised me a lot, actually. I’d never thought that before about anyone . . .”

“Well, he _does_ look a lot like _me_,” Mabel said, before shoving Norman. “I’m _joking_! Hahaha!”

“It wasn’t _just_ that, though,” Norman continued with a sheepish grin. “I mean, he believed me and he told me my ability was cool and useful, yeah, but he also stood up for me in school all the time. He _wanted_ _me_ to come over to the Shack, and introduced me to everyone there—you and Gruncle Stan and Soos and Wendy . . . _He_ _wanted me around_, Mabel . . . No one had _ever_ wanted me around before, not really . . . no one besides my grandma and . . . well, Neil . . . But _Dipper_ did, just like that . . .”

“Dipper is a pretty great guy,” Mabel said proudly. “A dork and a Dipstick, but a great guy . . . And that was it, then?” she prompted. “When you realized you were in love with him?”

Norman looked into a bush, but he wasn’t really looking at it. “It was . . .” he began distantly. “Do you remember when we were running from Slenderman? Before we understood everything? _Anything_, really . . . How we wound up in the graveyard? And you and me, we were both freaking out, but Dipper took us both by the hand and told us everything was going to be alright, because he would protect us . . .” Norman remembered, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “And he said we would all run when he gave the signal, run straight into town . . .”

“Yeah, then Dipstick ran a different way,” Mabel added, her tone incredulous but very fond. “Tried to make himself a diversion to save us. But it was _you_ that actually ended up saving _him_.”

Shaking his head humbly, Norman said, “Not _me_.”

“Okay, it was the ghosts that came to help us _when you called them_,” Mabel corrected herself, the emphaticness impossible to miss.

“It was then . . .” Norman intoned tenderly. “When he said he’d protect us . . . and meant it . . . Right then, I . . . I realized . . .”

“Say it!” Mabel whispered, the anticipation killing her. “Say it! Say it!”

“I love him . . .”

“Eeeeeee!” Mabel squealed, skipping ahead. They had then reached Inertia River, and she twirled all the way down to its bank. “That is all just . . . so ADORABLE! _I can’t even stand it_!”

“Just remember your promise . . .” Norman reminded her anxiously.

Giggling to herself, Mabel began to sing, “Dipper and Norman sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love! Then comes marriage! Then comes a revolutionary breakthrough in cloning and genesplicing technology! Then comes Norman with a baby carriage! I’m gonna be a clone’s auntie!”

But Norman wasn’t listening; he was staring fixedly across the river. “Mabel . . .”

“It’s true, though! They’re working on that technology in secret government labs!”

“No, Mabel, shush! I can _see_ something!” Norman hissed emphatically.

Mabel went instantly still. “_What_ is it? _Where_ is it?” she whispered. “Is it a ghost? Is it one of those mean ghosts? Is that why we’re whispering? Or is it a shy one, and is _that_ why we’re whispering?”

“It’s . . . it’s not like any ghost I’ve ever seen before . . .” Norman said. “It’s bluish, for one thing, not greenish . . . It doesn’t look like a person, either, but . . . like a triangle with stick-figure arms and legs, and one big eye . . .”

“Weird . . .” Mabel said. “Right? That is weird, right?”

“_Very_ weird. Did I mention the top hat and bowtie? Because it’s wearing a top hat and bow tie.”

“Where is it?”

“Across the river . . . It keeps gesturing to me, like it wants us to follow,” Norman described. Raising his voice, he then called, “I can see you. You came to me last night, didn’t you?”

After a moment, Mabel whispered, “What’d it say?”

Perplexed, Norman replied, “Nothing. It just keeps gesturing to me. W-we can help you, ghost, but you need to tell me what you want.”

“Maybe it wants us to follow it?” Mabel suggested.

“But we can’t come _now_!” Norman protested. “We’re in the middle of something _important_! We’re looking for something we need to help our friend, because he’s in serious trouble!”

“Ask if it knows where the journal is.”

Norman gulped nervously, almost afraid to hope. “D-do you know where . . . the journal is?” Then he gasped. “It’s holding up three fingers! _Three_, Mabel!”

“We have to follow it,” she decided, giving Norman a push to the cross rocks. “Go on!”

As they neared, jumping from rock to rock, Norman called, “Wait! Don’t leave us! Hurry, Mabel! It’s floating off through the woods!”

They ran after it, desperate not to lose it. But Norman would swear later that it never moved faster than they did—that it was always just ahead of them—until suddenly it stopped and waited. Below where Norman said it floated was 3.

Norman picked it up and held it close. “You lead us here . . . Thank you,” he said gratefully.

“Yeah, thank you, Mr. Ghost-thing,” Mabel said sincerely.

“You wanted us to find it?” Norman asked. “But, why? No, don’t go!” Then he sighed.

“What just happened?” Mabel asked curiously.

“He . . . It . . . just faded away. I guess leading us here was its duty? Its unfinished business?”

Mabel considered that, then shrugged. “We can worry about that later. Let’s go fix my brother!”

****

It was almost nine o’clock when Dipper suddenly bolted up from his nap and dashed from the kitchen for no apparent reason. Alarmed, Soos followed, calling, “D-Dude! What’s up with you?!”

But Dipper skidded to a halt in the shop. He spun to stare at Soos, then attempted nonchalance, “Neowthing . . . Neowthing is wrong. Go away. I don’t care about yeou.”

“Dude?”

Ignoring him, Dipper entered the shop and began looking around. “It’s almeost nine o’clock . . . Gotta find a place to watch Wendy find mey birrrds . . . Gonna be _so_ _imprrressed_ by mey hunting . . . Gotta be _inconspicuous_, though . . .”

“Uh, I don’t think this is the best idea . . .” Soos suggested warningly.

“Go away. Yeou don’t interest meow.”

“It’s just . . . Dude, your hands . . .”

Looking at them—all covered in fur and tipped with claws—Dipper seemed perplexed. He asked, “What abeout them? They’re _gorgeous_ . . . so sleek and _lethal_ . . .”

“But, uh . . . not exactly what Wendy is used to seeing, if you know what I mean . . .”

After considering that, Dipper conceded, “Yeou meay have a lumbering and inelegant point . . . Gloves!” he decided, snatching a pair off a display shelf. “I’ll wear gloves!”

“Um . . .”

Spying her out the window, Dipper exclaimed, “She’s almeost here! Soos, get lossst!” he hissed.

Giving in (against his better judgment), Soos backed out of the room.

“Okay neow . . . _Inconspicuous_!” Dipper told himself.

With a jingle from the door, Wendy entered the shop. “Yo, Dipper, how’s it . . . Dipper, what’re you doing?” she asked blankly. In the middle of the shop, Dipper sat with one leg straight up in the air, and his tongue against it.

Looking at her with wide eyes, Dipper slowly retracted his tongue. “Um, yeou know . . . Just . . . yeou know . . . _Any meail today_?” he asked suddenly, desperately, almost shouting.

“Er, no . . . Still no mail . . .” Wendy answered uncertainly.

“Teoo bad . . . uh . . . _I’m gonna straighten up that display neow_!” he cried, diving behind a shelf.

“Oookay?” She moved to the register, but glanced back. Dipper, with an eerily intent expression, was peering at her over the top of the display shelf. His pupils were enormous and glinting. “So . . . are you feeling alright?”

“Fine. Great! _Fantastic_! Why do yeou ask?”

“You’re just acting a lit—_TAH_!” she yelped suddenly. “What the heck?! What’re these dead birds doing here?!”

“M-meaybe someone left them there for yeou?” Dipper suggested nervously. “To impress yeou with their . . . manly hunting skills?”

“Oh my gosh, is _that_ what this freakiness is about?” Wendy snorted incredulously.

“F-freaky?” Dipper stammered as his heart shattered. “Yeou think it’s . . . freaky?”

“Well, yeah! I mean, look at it! And this flower on top? My gosh, that just makes it _freakier_!”

“The flower, teoo? Yeou don’t like it?”

“Man, Robbie can be so _weird_ sometimes,” Wendy declared as she gingerly slid all three birds into the trashcan.

From the depths of despair, Dipper looked up with hope. “R-Robbie? _Yes_, _Robbie_! So weird . . . of _him_ to leave yeou dead birds. Ahaha . . . He sure can be a freak . . . Will yeou excuse meo—_me_?”

Dipper fled the shop then, scrambling out before another word was said. He passed Soos, but continued on to the kitchen, where he crawled into a cupboard.

“You doing alright, dude?”

“Neo . . . Turning into a freak and an animal, and going to hide in here for _the rest of mey life_ . . . Sorry for what I said to yeou, by the way . . .”

“It wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry; Paintbrush and Hambone will be back soon, and we’ll fix this,” Soos promised him consolingly.

“Okay . . . I’m just gonna stay in here for neow . . .”

“Alright, dude. Can I get you anything?”

A can of tuna was propelled out the cupboard. “Could yeou open that for meow? Please?”

****

Elated and filled with a fresh, new hope, Mabel and Norman were running back to the Shack. They were shouting high-spiritedly, sure that procuring the cure couldn’t possibly be as difficult as finding the journal had been. Perhaps they weren’t, therefore, paying attention to what lay ahead . . . Perhaps it was just bad luck . . .

Bounding over undergrowth, they burst laughingly into a small clearing, and then went rigid. Stretched out in it was a long felinoid creature, with arms and legs shaped like a man’s, but also the head, tail, and claws of a mountain lion. Tawny fur covered its sleek, muscular body. Its eyes were a luminous and ferocious gold, and they now settled in surprise upon the two kids.

“WERECAT!” Norman screamed!

“HWERHWRAAA!” the Werecat shrieked, its muscles bunching beneath its body!

“GRAPPLING HOOK!” Mabel shouted, seizing Norman around the waist and firing into the air! Snagging a branch, it jerked them both upward just as the Werecat sprung—missing by inches! Together, they scrambled onto a thick bough, and watched breathlessly as the Werecat stalked irately around the base of the trunk.

“Good job . . . with the hook . . .” Norman gasped out thankfully.

Pointing down, Mabel taunted, “HA! Didn’t learn from Legend of Zelda, did ya, Mister Werecat?! _Nothing_ beats the grappling hook! So what ya gonna do now, Mister Werecat?! We’re _way_ _up here_, and you’re _way down there_?! Bet ya wish ya had your own grappling hook, huh?! SUCKA!”

“Uh . . . Mabel, you might want to stop making him angry now,” Norman suggested weakly.

“Pshaw! What’s he gonna do? Climb up here and get us?”

Holding up the journal, Norman pointed frantically to the now open page about the Werecat. Most prominent was a sketch of the beast, along with a caption that read, “Creature #19, the Werecat: Worse than werewolves, because werewolves can’t climb trees.”

They looked down.

The Werecat jumped up, sinking its claws into the bark.

Norman recoiled. “Crapcrapcrap!”

“Ninja Mabel Secret Technique: Hidden Weapon Throw! YARN GRENADE!” She swung her arm, loosing one of the balls of yarn from her sleeve! With perfect precision, it flew at its target . . .

And bounced off its head.

The Werecat blinked at the colorful ball of yarn in amazement. Then it looked back up at them, genuinely nonplussed.

“Uh . . . YARN GRENADE!” Mabel made a second attempt from the other sleeve.

The Werecat blocked it, and then growled disbelievingly at them.

Drawing the third ball of yarn from her pocket, Mabel threw it too. “Yarn Grenade?”

Annoyed, the Werecat knocked this one away, and then resumed climbing.

“That’s not working!”

“It’s my _best_ yarn!” Mabel protested. “_You_ try something!”

“Uh . . . um . . . S-SUPERSOAKER!” Norman bellowed, pointing and squeezing the trigger!

When the pressurized stream of water struck its coat, the Werecat roared and jumped away—jumped down from the trunk! Norman squirted at it, and the Werecat actually leaped about, trying to evade the water! Again and again he squirted, pumping the air pressure nonstop as he did!

And then Mabel grabbed his arm. “Stop! It’s already half gone! The water!”

Shooting the tank a glance, Norman realized with dread that it was already so low.

In that lapse, the Werecat sprung onto the trunk and began to shimmy up it again!

Mabel pointed and screamed, and Norman repulsed it with another spray of pressurized water! But the water level dropped with it! “We can’t keep this up forever!” Norman despaired.

“Look out!”

Slipping around to the far side of the trunk, the Werecat used the trunk itself as a shield! Protected thusly, it began to scale the tree, and Norman couldn’t reach it!

“Okay, when it gets up here,” Mabel decided fiercely, “we make our custard’s last stand like the brave Ice Cream Man regiment at the Alamode! You spray its face, and I’ll use my last yarn grenade!”

“Then what?” Norman asked desperately, seeing the Werecat was halfway to them.

“_Remember the Alamode_!” Mabel cried defiantly. And it seemed that the gunfire of history echoed through the air with her battle cry . . .

And that it was getting closer from the south . . .

The Werecat stopped climbing and stared uncomprehendingly southward. The kids did so, too. There was unmistakably the sound of gunfire approaching them, and of shouting voices. And then, loping at top speed, a shaggy form ran northward through the clearing below—apparently trying to rip its own neck open as it ran. It was roaring in an indistinct and muffled way, “THOPF, YOU BATHTERF!”

“Gruncle Stan?” Mabel and Norman both wondered.

And then from very near, another gunshot and a voice trumpeting, “MmmTallyho!”

Shrieking, the Werecat hurled itself down from the trunk and fled eastward into the woods.

A troop of khaki-clad, mustachioed men with monocles and rifles came plodding into the clearing seconds afterwards. “MmmDid anyone see which way the beast went?” one asked.

“Hey!” Norman called down.

“MmmI say, look at that: a pair of young’uns frightened into the tree by ‘the Bigfoot’!”

“Er, yeah! _Bigfoot_!” Norman said hurriedly. He pointed eastward. “He went _that_ way!”

“MmmTerribly grateful; rather toffing of you! MmmTallyho!”

Norman and Mabel then watched as the troop vanished into the woods, now hot on the trail—not of Gruncle Stan, but of the Werecat. “So we save Gruncle Stan right after he saves us,” Mabel said. “That seems fair; the universe is balanced . . . Think they’ll catch that thing?”

“I . . . kinda hope so right now . . .” Norman admitted. “Let’s get back to the Shack before Dipper turns into one of that!”

****

Exhausted, Stan returned to the Shack and entered by the cellar. There, not running for his life and therefore able to focus, he finally managed to remove the Bigfoot costume. Had he not heard tourists present, he might have collapsed onto his bed and not moved for a week, but his desire for financial advancement was greater than his desire for physical recuperation; he dressed, and then mounted the stairs to work his magic.

Or to let Soos try to work the magic for the rest of _this_ tour, at least . . .

Wendy glanced up at him from her magazine as he leaned against the register. “Hard morning?”

“Next time I decide to do the thing which the First and Second Rules expressly forbid discussing, just shoot me in the foot. It’ll save a lot of time. And pain.”

“You got it, boss,” Wendy said idly. “By the way, people have been calling about the tour—calling for _appointments_.”

Stan looked up eagerly, some of his vim returning. “Did you tell them there was a surcharge for appointment tours?”

“Heck yes. They’re coming anyway. Five different groups. I think I wrote a schedule . . .”

“_Good_ _girl_!” Stan enthused. “I always knew it wasn’t a mistake to let you blackmail me into giving you this job!”

****

It was Mabel who reached the Mystery Shack first, Mabel who threw open the kitchen door, and Mabel who proclaimed, “Dipper, we _found_ it! Where are you, Dipper?!”

“In here . . .” Dipper moped from the inside of the cupboard.

Kneeling down, Mabel looked in at him. “Heeeey, it looks _really_ comfortable in here! I never noticed . . . Also, you’ve got cute little whiskers now!”

“Yeah, that’s why I climbed in . . . It was instinct to find a warm nook to hide, I guess . . .”

“Well, stop that moping, Meowster! We found the journal! A triangle ghost led us to it!”

Jubilantly, Norman produced 3. “It’s true!”

“Yeou did?” Dipper asked, hope coming back into his heart and his voice.

“And Creature #19 is the Werecat!”

“Well, read it! _Read it_!” Dipper implored as he crawled to the front of the cupboard.

Norman had just opened to the page when he stopped. “Where’s Soos? He’s supposed to be watching you.”

“There were people for the tour. I promised neot to leave the cupboard. Neow read it!”

Clearing his throat, Norman read aloud:

“Creature #19, the Werecat: Worse than werewolves, because werewolves can’t climb trees.

I suspect the woods hide a monthly terror akin to a werewolf. This creature, however, appears during the week of the New Moon, not that of the Full Moon. Personal sightings confirm its existence. As feared, it is a werecat.

Endowed with retractable claws and night vision, it may be more dangerous than a werewolf, for it can climb trees. Certainly it is rarer. Why, I wonder?

Shows an aversion to water, orange peels, and loud noises—as werewolves dislike wolfsbane, any potent malodorant, and loud noises. Have been able to repel it temporarily with them, but research into a cure . . .”

Norman stopped.

“Yeah? _Yeah_?” Dipper urged him.

“What’s it say?” Mabel chorused.

Norman opened his mouth, then closed it without saying a single word. He swallowed thickly. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“Normeon?”

“. . . research into a cure . . . has produced no results . . . There is _no cure_ that I have f-found,” Norman read, his voice breaking.

Mabel gasped, and then took her brother’s hand sympathetically. For his part, Dipper’s face fell. It was as if his whole being fell. There was no cure. No hope. Eventually, he asked, “Anything else?”

“No.” But Norman’s response was a little too swift and a little too emphatic.

“What else?”

Snapping the journal shut, Norman insisted, “Nothing. There’s nothing.”

“What elssse?!” Dipper hissed angrily.

The journal was clenched between white knuckles. Trembling knuckles. Norman shook his head.

“If yeou don’t read it, I will. I _need_ to _know_.”

Reopening 3, Norman sought the page again. He took his time, pretending to have trouble finding it, but could only delay for so long. Eventually, under the slitted gaze of Dipper, he reluctantly resumed. “I don’t know, but I suspect that werecatism—like werewolfism—can only be cured during the first week of contraction. If a c-cure (should it exist) is not administered during that t-time, I fear it will become . . . p-permanent . . .”

Silence hung heavy upon them for a long moment.

Dipper broke it first, saying hollowly, “So that’s it . . . I’m a freak for the rest of mey life . . .”

“There’s still time,” Norman suggested desperately. “The internet . . . W-we still have time . . . We _can_ find a cure . . .”

“Give meow the journal,” Dipper ordered suddenly. He read it for himself then, his eyes darting frenziedly all over the page. Once. Twice. Thrice. He seemed to be looking for anything they might have missed, but he eventually just sagged in despair. “That’s _really_ it . . . I wonder heow much longer I’ve got before I go wild, teoo . . .”

“Norman’s right, though,” Mabel tried hopelessly. “We could still find the cure ourselves. There’s still time. Never say die. Remember the Alamode, right?”

“It’s ‘Alamo’, Meabel,” Dipper corrected her morosely. “And they lost there. Everybody _died_.”

“Really? That’s kinda depressing . . . Why does everyone want to remember that?”

Shutting the cupboard, Dipper said, “Go away. Just leave meow alone, please? For a meinute?”

Mabel rose and pulled Norman up with her. “Okay . . . For a minute,” she said understandingly. “But this _isn’t_ over. We’re _not_ giving up . . .”

Dipper didn’t answer. It sounded like he was sobbing quietly.

****

True to the plan, business boomed at the Mystery Shack—especially after the news of the unsuccessful Bigfoot hunt spread. It didn’t need an edition of _The Gossiper_ (though it did, of course, receive one that evening under the headline, “Kraft Real Mayo Thief Still A(big)foot”—the second article was headlined, “Mayor Northwest Repeats Campaign Promise to Bring Kraft Real Mayo, Jobs Here”); everyone was already talking, and everyone wanted to hear what the self-proclaimed expert on all things mysterious and paranormal had to say.

“This is great!” Stan exalted during a brief lull. “We’re booked—_booked!_—clear to next week! I didn’t even know we _had_ a schedule book!”

“We don’t,” Wendy pointed out indifferently as she turned a page of her magazine.

“Right. Soos, go buy us a schedule book,” he ordered. “Something cheap. Nothing fancy.”

Soos glanced to Norman and Mabel, who shrugged in response. “Right away, Mr. Pines.”

“Now kids, I need you to—wait a minute, we’re still missing one.”

“Dipper . . . isn’t feeling so great,” Mabel said truthfully. “He’s lying down somewhere.”

“Then it’ll have to be you two, Mabel Syrup and Paintbrush. Run and get the shelves restocked, would you? The merchandise is selling like hotcakes, and some is nearly out. I’ll be gouged clean through if we don’t take every chance to gouge these suckers clean through.”

They complied mechanically and without enthusiasm for want of anything else better to do. Physical labor might have helped them at that time; it occupied their minds and prevented them from sinking deeper and deeper into their anxieties for Dipper. It wasn’t fun, however, and not even Mabel could turn it into a game at that time. When they had finished, they sat behind the register with Wendy.

“What’s got you guys so down?”

“Um . . . worried about Dipper,” Norman admitted truthfully.

“Not too serious is it? He seemed a little . . . twitchy earlier this morning . . .”

“I’m . . . sure it will pass . . . once the moon starts waxing,” Norman added in a bitter undertone.

Wendy was about to inquire further when three precise knocks interrupted them.

Stan, with his fez neatly adjusted and an ingratiating smile, threw open the door in welcome. The Honorable Safarington Pithelmet and his peers were waiting on the other side. “_YOU_!” Stan roared, and then caught himself, “must . . . be . . . my one o’clock appointment! Please come in, gentlemen!”

“MmmThank you, indeed. MmmAre you the proprietor of this delightful little hovel?”

“Indeed, I am. Welcome to the Mystery Shack!”

“MmmWe seek an expert on ‘the Bigfoot’, and you come highly recommended.”

With an unctuous bow, Stan assured him, “All gleaned from years of careful study and research, and even carefuller observation. Now, if you’ll be so good as to proceed to the register, we can take care of the entrance fees and various appointment tour surcharges first—heh heh—and then begin the tour.”

“MmmVery much obliged, I’m sure, but it is not the tour so much as your expertise on this singular issue that we require. MmmIf you would be so kind as to indulge us presently, we shall depart.”

“Certainly, but we have a strict Cancellation Surcharge policy,” Stan replied firmly.

“MmmOf course, and you shall receive equitable remuneration for your time.”

“Er . . . good?” Stan replied, though unsure about the word “remuneration”.

A careless order was given to the butler, “MmmDo see to it. MmmWhatever they ask.”

“Wendy,” Stan shot quickly to her as she grudgingly straightened up, “please see to _everything_: the _individual_ entrance fees, and the surcharges for a special appointment tour, last minute registration, cancellation, and two-souvenir-minimum waiver—heh heh . . . er, ahem, please excuse my cough, sirs. Now, how can I be of assistance?”

“MmmEssentially, we wish to know how one kills ‘the Bigfoot’. MmmWe are all quite convinced that the beast must be supernatural, for it still lives though _we_ hunted it.”

Unimpressed, Stan offered, “Isn’t it possible that Bigfoot was just too fast and wily for you? Couldn’t you have just missed?”

“MmmPoppycock! MmmWe are all agreed that we are the best shots in the world of hunting! MmmBesides, creatures more fleet of foot have fallen to us before now.”

“Right . . . Well, there are some (myself included) who believe that Bigfoot is a sacred creature of these lands, and so _shouldn’t_ be hunted.”

“MmmAlso poppycock.”

“Er, well . . . The native people of this valley, the . . . Puedam Tribe,” Stan continued solemnly, “thought Bigfoot was the spirit of the forest. In fact, the last Medic Man (good friend before he died—shame about being the last Puedam) once said that shooting at Bigfoot was like shooting at a forest. Meaning that you’ll never hit it. Can’t hit it.”

On the other side of the register, Mabel sat up. She was listening very intently, and she nudged Norman with her elbow to make sure he was, too.

“MmmI see . . . MmmAnd you believe this hokum-smokem superstition?”

“Well, gentlemen, which is more likely? That you all somehow missed every shot earlier today, or that Bigfoot cannot be shot . . . for supernatural/spiritual reasons?” Stan submitted to them.

Taken aback, the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet did not have an immediate answer. Eventually, he offered, “MmmIf the Bigfoot is like the Werewolf, it is impervious to normal bullets. MmmWe must have hit it, but the ammunition was ineffective. MmmHas your research not suggested any weaknesses akin to the silver bullet which fells the Werewolf?”

Stan stared at him for a long, long moment. Finally, he replied slowly, “Nothing that can _kill_ it . . . But my research does suggest that Bigfoot is partial to certain . . . substances . . .”

“MmmEgads! MmmYou don’t mean . . . MmmOf course!”

“Yes, exactly!” Stan said quickly, though not sure for what.

“MmmIt’s all so obvious, and we are complete boobies for not seeing it sooner! MmmThe food it stole—the _sandwiches_! MmmAnd it only appeared _after_ the arrival of the sandwiches in the valley!”

“Now you’re getting it! Say it for everyone to hear!” Stan urged.

“MmmKraft Real Mayo!”

With a fixed smile, Stan nodded. “Yes. Exactly. You can’t kill Bigfoot, but you can maybe use that as a lure, and then trap it. Obviously.”

“MmmWe are eternally grateful to you. MmmIt isn’t much, but please accept this added monetary gratuity as a token of our thanks.” And he offered a wad of cash to Stan.

Dollar signs might well have appeared in Stan’s eyes. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Turning back to his peers, the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet called rousingly, “MmmGentlemen, we now know the weakness of the Bigfoot! MmmLet us now sally forth to trap it, for fame and glory and good sport! MmmAll in favor: fire your rifles in the air.”

“Hey_heyHEY_!” Stan broke in before they could do so. “Not in _my_ Mystery Shack! You shoot it, you bought it!”

“MmmHe is right; this is not some common hotel where one can fire willy-nilly into the air. MmmOur sincerest apologies,” he offered with dignified contrition. “MmmNow, to procure the bait, then to trap the beast! MmmTallyho!”

And with that the hunters charged out the door.

Letting loose a long, slow sigh, Stan sunk against the register. “Well, _that_ happened. So how much did we make off of that lot of rubes?”

“About a hundred dollars a head,” Wendy said breezily.

Ca-ching! The cash register opened, and Stan collected all the money together to count it. Seldom had he looked happier. It was almost indecent.

Mabel spoke up then. “That was pretty impressive, Gruncle Stan. So . . . did you make all that up just now, or is some of it true?”

“Some from column A, and some from column B . . .” he answered absently.

“I bet you really are the foremost expert on supernatural creatures, huh?”

“I know a thing or two, Mabel Syrup . . .”

“Do you know anything about . . . w-werethings?” Norman ventured timidly. “Like maybe how to c-cure one, for instance?”

“A were_thing_? Like a were_wolf_? Why?”

“Oh, just innocent, childish, pretend, lark-game things,” Mabel said innocently. “No _real_ reason. Now,” she became serious, “isn’t it a silver bullet that cures a werething?”

“No, that _kills_ it. Because it’s a bullet, and bullets kill _everything_,” Stan said simply, dismissively. “And of course, if you’re making bullets out of silver, you’re going to take the time to aim. That’s logic,” he added obviously.

“But then, what _cures_ it?” Norman asked insistently.

“I dunno. Probably something folksy and obvious when you think about it . . .”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Uh . . . take vampires,” Stan chose at random. “They hate garlic. Why? Because they’re from Transylvania, and Transylvanians hate garlic. That’s why you never see Italian vampires. Simple as that.”

“So . . . What cures a werewolf?”

“Oh . . . Probably have to make it fetch a stick from a sheep tree . . . Wolves like chasing sheep, so the wolf part will chase the stick right out of the person.”

“_Sheep tree_?” Mabel repeated skeptically. “Gruncle Stan, you just made that up.”

“Did not. You can look it up on the internet.”

“Then what do you do for a werecat? Hit it with a piece of dogwood because the cat part will run out of the person?”

“What?!” Norman gaped incredulously.

Now it was Stan’s turn to sound skeptical, “Were_cat_? Uh . . . sure. That sounds good.”

“_What_?!” Norman repeated.

“And maybe make them wear some dogwood flowers so that the cat part doesn’t come back.”

“Sounds . . . plausible,” Mabel conceded. “And it can’t hurt, anyway. On a totally unrelated note, didn’t you say once that those walking sticks over in the corner are made of dogwood?”

Narrowing his eyes, Stan replied suspiciously, “Yeah . . .”

“And that was the _truth_, right?”

“_Yeah_ . . .” Stan answered, wondering if his desire to finish counting the cash was greater than his current sense of unease.

But Mabel was already scurrying away with a “Thanks, Gruncle Stan!”

“No problem, kids. And if you need anything else, don’t need anything else.”

But as Mabel pulled him across the shop, Norman protested quietly, “Hitting Dipper with sticks ‘_can’t hurt_’?! That sounds counterproductive and . . . frankly, medieval!”

“If you’ve got any _better_ ideas to cure my brother, I’d like to hear them!” she countered shortly. But before he could respond, she had thrust a walking stick into his chest and claimed another for herself. With that, she was bounding down the hall to the kitchen. A second later, she threw the cupboard open and announced, “Dipper! Good news! We found a cure! We just have to hit you with sticks until you’re better!”

“What?! Meabel, that sounds counter-productive and . . . frankly, meodieval,” Dipper argued from his shadowy nook.

“That’s what I said!” Norman agreed.

“Look, we only have to do it _once_,” Mabel countered. “Gruncle Stan said this would cure you.”

“And yeou find that credible?”

“Come on, Dipstick! We have to at least try!”

Defiantly, Dipper rolled away from her. “I’m neot doing it, and yeou can’t meake meow!”

“Come on, Dipper! That’s not _you_ talking; that’s the werecat in you.”

“Neo.”

“Fine,” Mabel said stonily. “You leave us no choice.” She reached in and seized him by the scruff.

“Wha—_Hey_! Neo fair! Let meow go!” Dipper protested, struggling helplessly as she dragged him out. But for all his thrashing, she had him in a grip that no feline anywhere can break.

Norman stood nearby, unable to watch—his head down and his eyes scrunched miserably shut. Clenched in his hands and clutched against his chest was the dogwood walking stick; he was wringing it in agitation. Practically folded in upon himself, he looked even paler than usual. In fact, he looked ill.

Anyone would have found the sight of Norman pitiable, but werecats don’t have a sense of pity. “Normeon, buddy . . .” Dipper appealed to his friend. “Y-yeou don’t want to do this!”

Shaking his head furiously, Norman croaked out, “N-no, I _don’t_ wanna do this . . .”

“Then get thisss crazy she-beast off meow!”

“B-but . . . if it’ll cure you—if there’s even a _chance_ it’ll cure you . . . then I guess I have to . . .” Norman continued throatily. He dared a quick look at Dipper, looking as though he might break down and cry at any minute. “I’m s-sorry . . .”

“But . . . but this meakes no hisssense!” Dipper fizzled angrily.

“Actually, it kinda does,” Mabel retorted, maintaining her unbreakable grip on her brother. “What’re the odds the guy writing the journal even thought of this? Or had a chance to try it?”

“Hisssilence, traitor! Yeou have betrayed my tiny trust in yeou!”

“She’s right . . .” Norman agreed painfully, as if saying it cost him a vital organ. “I’m s-sorry . . .” he repeated to Dipper. “We have to try . . . _we have to try_ . . .”

“Normeon?” Dipper asked nervously.

Norman had gone quiet. With a visible, difficult effort, he began to unfold—to straighten up. Not shrinking into himself (as he usually did), now was one of those rare moments when it was so surprisingly obvious that he was tall. Half a head taller than Dipper and Mabel (not counting his hair). He was no longer wringing the walking stick, though it was still clenched in his hands.

“Ah . . .” he mouthed, then inhaled sharply. “Ahh . . .” he tried again, louder this time.

“Norman?” Mabel asked uncertainly, for Norman seemed to be rocking back and forth.

Norman suddenly forced eyes open, wide and wild! He roared, “AHHHH!” as he threw himself forward and swung!

Involuntarily, Mabel released Dipper and jumped back! Dipper, his tail puffed up to twice its size and his pupils dilated by an adrenaline burst, dropped to all fours just ahead of the blow! He even felt the wind of it overhead! He lunged forward as Norman swung downward, then leapt onto the table as Mabel took a swing of her own right after it! Rounding on them with his back arched and his puffed tail sticking straight up in the air, he actually yowled at them!

“AHHHH!” Norman continued to yell, the sheer force of it propelling him onward. Another swing followed, but Dipper surprised him by springing forward—over the stick and even over Norman! Landing, Dipper rolled past Mabel, and lunged at the backdoor! Before she could stop him, Dipper was out the door and hightailing it (literally)!

“Not _again_!” Mabel fumed.

Already following him, Norman shouted, “Don’t let him get away!”

This time, Dipper couldn’t shake their pursuit or lose them in the woods! Norman stayed on his tail—sometimes almost in reach of it—and so prevented any chance to scramble up and into a tree! Mabel followed right behind! “Maybe . . . he’ll go through . . . the catnip again . . .” she panted at one point. “And we can . . . grab him . . . while he’s stoned . . .”

And Dipper did, in fact, dash through a patch of wild catnip (followed immediately by Norman and Mabel), but it had no time to take an effect.

The chase continued until they stumbled into the ravine, right up to the bank of the river itself! Dipper skidded frantically to a halt right before it, his arms pinwheeling to prevent tumbling in! He spun, and there were Norman and Mabel—huffing, but undeterred, and with the walking sticks still in hand!

“G-guys . . . Let’s neot do anything hasty neow . . .” he pleaded breathlessly.

“The cat’s already running . . . Just a few whacks’ll make it run out of you . . .” Mabel insisted. “Whoa . . . That woulda sounded . . . much more hardboiled . . . if I wasn’t so out of breath . . .”

Before they could swing at him, Dipper turned and hurled himself onto the nearest cross rock! He nearly slipped into the river—in that moment, the idea of water was worse than the walking sticks—but he managed to catch his balance! Looking back, he saw Norman and Mabel following him, and so he hurled himself to the next one, and then the next one!

“It’s for your own good!” Mabel shouted right behind him.

“I beg to differ!” he shouted back.

The other side of the river—the other side of the shallow ravine! Dipper was scrambling up it, with Norman and Mabel stubbornly following, when something big reared out of the undergrowth! Furry and filthy, spattered with mud and blood, it growled wrathfully down at the three of them!

Dipper ground to a halt, throwing out his arms to stop Norman and Mabel. “_W_-_Werecat_ . . .”

“Oh no . . .” Norman gasped, his eyes fixed on the murderous beast.

“_Again_?!” Mabel exclaimed in disbelief.

Instinct whispered in Dipper’s pointed ears, and he passed it quietly to his friend and his sister. “Back up slowly . . . Back to the river, it won’t follow us across . . .”

But before they had retreated more than three careful steps, the Werecat crouched down low!

“LOOK OUT!” Dipper screamed, and the three of them dodged aside as the Werecat pounced!

Before it could round on them, Dipper jumped to a tree and skittered up its trunk!

Mabel gripped Norman, drew her grappling hook, and fired yet again into the canopy above! Retracting fast, it pulled them upward with Mabel’s triumphant cry, “GRAPPLING HOOK!”

But her grip failed; Norman slipped out of it, and fell back through the air . . .

“NORMAN!” Mabel cried.

“_NEO_!” Dipper yelled.

The ground was soft, but Norman still hit it hard. Stunned, he could barely rise. When he gazed at the Werecat, he didn’t even have the breath to shout. Or maybe he was too stunned to recognize it.

“Normeon, _run_!” Dipper shouted, though he saw his friend couldn’t even stand.

The Werecat saw this, too . . .

“_Hissstay away from mey friend_!”

The Werecat crouched . . .

But it was Dipper who sprung!

Diving down from above, he plowed into the Werecat, then sank his claws—even his teeth—into its coat! Shrieking, it flailed violently in every direction, but he clung to it! For his life! For his friend! Fur literally flied!

Still clenching the walking stick, Norman staggered to his feet. Before his eyes, the Werecat lurched toward a tree. Dipper leapt away right before it pounded its back against the tree. He landed, then placed himself between Norman and the Werecat. Though it sounded distant, like it came from miles away, Norman heard Dipper’s voice promising, “I’ll protect yeou! Stay behind meow!”

“Dipper . . .” Norman murmured weakly.

Above the fray, Mabel finally managed to extricate her grappling hook from the branches. Without the least hesitation, she began clambering down as fast as she could.

Recovered from its self-inflicted blow, the Werecat rose up again. It looked up at the two boys, facing Dipper—the other werecat—especially. They were both breathless, both filled with a killing rage, but only one of them was dripping with blood. It intended to make someone pay for that . . .

“Hissstay back!” Dipper warned. “I beat the Meultibear, and I can beat yeou teoo!”

The Werecat reared up and roared!

Unafraid, Dipper puffed himself up and hissed!

And Norman, in spite of himself, breathed, “So ferocious . . .”

The Werecat crouched again, ready to lunge! Ready to _kill_!

“YARN GRENADE!”

A ball of bright yellow yarn flew out of the canopy to bounce off the astonished Werecat’s face!

Before it could recover, Dipper jumped in with a swiping uppercut! His claws raked its nose! Sudden and intense, the pain made it stumble backwards, down the ravine!

“DUCK!” Norman ordered, and Dipper did as Norman jumped forward and swung the dogwood walking stick with all he had! CRACK! Like a baseball bat against the Werecat’s skull! The blow made it stagger back drunkenly! To the bank of the river!

“GET DOWN!” Mabel shouted. Both the boys spun to see her, at the base of the tree, aiming her grappling hook past them! They dove aside, and she fired! The tri-prong flew straight and true, connecting solidly with the face of the Werecat! Like a KO punch, the tri-prong laid it out!

There was no sagging downward, no collapsing into a heap, no folding at the knees; the Werecat simply fell straight back—straight into Inertia River. The water enveloped it without a struggle.

With baited breath, the kids watched and waited.

Nothing happened.

Eventually, Mabel hazarded a question. “Should we . . . pull it out of the river?”

“Well—”

The water began to churn! Then suddenly Norman recoiled with a shout!

“What?!” Dipper and Mabel demanded together.

“Y-you didn’t see it?”

“See _what_?” the twins still demanded as one.

“The Werecat!” Norman responded disbelievingly. “It leapt up! It was _shrieking_! Then it just . . . sorta dissolved in the water . . .”

Dipper eyed the boiling water warily. “Then what’s in the water right neow?”

A shaggy form burst forth, gagging at the air! Its face was a twisted grimace—half cat, half ape! Thrashing wildly, it clawed at the bank, crawling up onto it—up towards the kids! It looked deranged!

Still pumping straight adrenaline, Norman didn’t think; he just reacted.

THWACK! Down came the walking stick!

Thump. Down went the creature.

“Okay, if you guys want,” Mabel announced, “we can throw it back in the river.”

Norman nudged it curiously with the walking stick. It was completely still, and yet it was moving. Then he realized what was happening. “Guys, I think . . . I think it’s _changing back_!”

“What?!” Dipper leapt forward hopefully, and Mabel followed close behind. “_Whoa_ . . .”

Before their eyes, fanged teeth flattened and facial features broadened. The ears slid slowly from the top of the head down to the side of the head, where they gradually became small and round. Claws retracted and then morphed into fingernails, while the tail shortened until it vanished altogether. Like a wave, fur receded—leaving pinkish (if still quite hairy) skin in its wake.

“Um . . . I don’t think this guy is wearing any clothes . . .” Mabel said uncomfortably. “Ew . . .” she concluded as the fur receded from two fat buttocks.

“I think this guy is the Meailman . . .” Dipper proposed, seeing the familiar, heavily-bearded face. “Ha! So I guess Soos was _almeost_ right . . . not a were_wolf_; but a were_cat_ . . .”

Staring thoughtfully at the river, Norman mused, “Aversion to water . . . Certainly it is rarer . . . Never crossed the river, and Dipper didn’t willingly . . .”

Dipper’s ears perked at the mention of his name. “Huh?”

“And the Werecat just now only I could see—a ghost? a specter?—dissolved in the water . . .”

“Norman, you’re talking to someone we can’t see or hear again,” Mabel informed him genially. “Who’s there, and—more importantly—are they adequately impressed by us beating the Werecat?”

“Hmm?” Norman looked up, somewhat embarrassed. “S-sorry . . . I was just talking to myself . . . Dipper,” he addressed his friend seriously, “I need to know. Did you bathe yesterday or today?”

“Or ever?” Mabel cut in.

“What? Why?”

“Just tell me. Between yesterday morning (when the Werecat scratched you or bit you or whatever) and now, did you take a bath? Did you shower?”

Somewhat defensive, Dipper said, “How’s that yeour business?”

“You mean you didn’t?” Norman pressured him intently. “Even after all the running around in the woods and everything?”

“Please! That is _nothing_!” Mabel said dismissively. “He goes days without bathing all the time. He once went _thirteen_ days straight. Dad and Mom had to ambush him with a hose and a fire extinguisher full of soap suds.”

“Hisssilence, meortal! I mean, _Meabel_!”

“Please, Dipper,” Norman begged him. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, I _bathed_,” Dipper replied sulkily.

For a moment, Norman was shaken. Then, a look of horrified incredulity spread across his face. “You don’t mean . . . with your _tongue_?”

Dipper crossed his arms defiantly. “Saliva is full of enzymes that—”

“Gah! Don’t even finish that sentence!” Mabel ordered. “_Ever_!”

“What?! It meakes perfect sense! Why am I the only one who sees that?!”

After a shudder, Norman stated, “Well, then I think I’ve got good news: this guy isn’t a werecat anymore. I think we just cured him.”

Dipper cocked his head questioningly. So too did Mabel.

“And I’ve got better news: I think I know what cured him. Mabel,” he said quickly, “would you please let the line out of your grappling hook a little?”

Mabel obligingly pushed the release, and Norman drew a length of it.

“What’s the cure, then?” Dipper asked eagerly.

“Keep a tight hold on this end,” Dipper directed Mabel.

“Huh? Oh! Ohhhhh,” she intoned slowly. “_Gotcha_.”

“What? C’meon, Normeon!” Dipper urged.

“Ready?” Norman asked Mabel.

“Yep. And . . . _now_!”

To Dipper’s bewilderment and sudden deep sense of unease, they both ran circles around him, until the line of the grappling hook ensnared him. “Wha—Yeou guys! What’re yeou doing?!” he snarled.

“Giving you a bath,” Norman told him.

Dipper’s blood turned to ice. “W-what?”

“Turns out that’s the cure. It’s why werecats are so rare—they just have to be dunked.”

“Y-yeou wouldn’t . . . Neot _yeou_, Normeon. Neot to _meow_. We’re buds!” Dipper was writhing under the loops of chord; his voice had become a desperate squeak. “A bud wouldn’t do _this_! Neot _this_!”

Squatting down, Norman heaved his bound friend over his shoulder.

“Remeowmber when yeou were trying to hit meow with sticks?! Let’s go back to hitting meow with sticks!” Dipper pleaded. “It wasn’t this, anyway! Yeou hit him with a stick! _That’s_ what cured him! C’meon, guys! I’d prefer the sticks!”

Trudging to the river bank, Norman waded in.

“Neo! _Neo_!” Dipper yowled, thrashing as best he could.

Then Norman threw him in.

“_Neo_—” SPLOSH.

Behind him, Mabel teased, “You know, if he drowns, you might get to do _mouth-to-mouth_ . . .”

Ignoring her, Norman focused on the water where Dipper had sunk down. Then all of a sudden, he started back with a gasp. Immediately after, he plunged down and hauled Dipper out of the water.

“What was it?” Mabel asked. “Was it like some werecat ghost coming out of Dipper?”

“Y-yeah, I think so . . . It was like a smaller werecat—”

“A were_kitten_!” Mabel insisted.

“—all flailing and screaming . . . before it dissolved in the water . . . You okay, Dipper?” he asked solicitously of his coughing friend.

“_Traitor_! _Judhisss_!” Dipper hacked. “Yeou teoo . . . have betrayed mey . . . tiny trust in yeou!”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Norman said with a little smile. “Let’s get the rope off you.”

Sulking and dripping, Dipped insisted, “It didn’t even work . . .”

“Then what’s going on with your hands, Dipstick?” Mabel pointed out ecstatically.

Looking at his hands, Dipper gasped. The fur was already receding. “It’s working! It’s _really_ working! Ha . . . Yeou guys have no idea heow weird this feels!” he laughed as his body retransformed.

“There go the whiskers . . . and the teeth . . .” Mabel counted off joyfully. “And the tail . . . And—wow, your ears . . . moving . . . it just looks so wrong.”

“Imagine how it feels for me!” Dipper exalted. “It’s liked . . . they’re stretching back _in_ . . .”

Norman looked up suddenly. “Wait, say that again.”

“Uh . . . Imagine how it feels for me?”

“You didn’t say ‘meow’!”

“I didn’t? Haha! I _didn’t_!” Dipper realized, practically starting to dance. “_I’m me again_!”

“We gotta test this,” Mabel declared, whirling to snag her yarn. She then began waving it in her brother’s face, asking, “How does this make you feel?”

“Annoyed . . . but I don’t want to murder it!”

“Yes! I can wear ‘Geronirainbo’ again!”

“What about . . . tuna?” Norman suggested eagerly.

“Gross! Haha!” Norman practically giggled, dancing around them both. “Revolting! Hehehehe! The fact that I put some in my mouth makes me nauseous!”

“One more test,” Norman insisted. Turning to Mabel, he pulled a sprig of plant from her hair. Catnip. Brandishing it under his friend’s nose, he asked, “Feel anything?”

“Nothing! No, wait . . .” Dipper froze suddenly, absolute horror on his face. “_Oh_ _no_ . . . What if it’s coming ba . . . a . . . a-_tsoo_.”

Mabel snorted, “Pff! Well, there’s that. He still—”

“Don’t say it,” Dipper warned her.

“—sneezes like—”

“Don’t say it, Mabel!”

“A werekitten,” Norman finished. “_Adorable_.”

Mabel cracked. And then Norman did too.

Pouting, Norman insisted, “It’s not funny.”

But they just kept laughing. Eventually, he stepped forward and shoved them both into the river. Not even that could stop their laughter, however, and it was really only a matter of time before Dipper started laughing, too. Then they splashed him, and he waded in to splash them back.

****

“Yeesh! Look at the tree of you!” Stan exclaimed when the three kids shuffled into the Shack. “You look like you were buried by a mudslide, dug out, and then buried by a second, bigger mudslide. Ha! So where have you three been?” Stan challenged them.

Water still dripping from his curly head, Dipper grinned sheepishly back at Stan (and at Wendy, who lounged behind him). Behind Dipper, Norman was self-consciously and self-effacingly trying to remove his sneakers, so as not to track mud behind him; not even the river had leveled his spikes. Meanwhile, Mabel was wringing water from her long hair—not that it mattered, because her sweater alone had sponged up (and was now leaking) more than the boys’ clothes combined.

“We, uh . . . fell in the river?” Dipper offered lamely.

“All three of you?”

“Yes,” Mabel replied matter-of-factly. “And it was fun.”

Sighing, Stan turned joshingly to Norman. “Paintbrush, you’re supposed to keep these two knuckleheads from doing dumb things like that.”

An automatic reflex, Norman apologized meekly, “S-sorry, Gruncle Stan.”

Stan snorted indulgently, “Jeez, kid. That was _joke_. Lighten up a little.”

A clatter made them all turn. Soos was standing petrified in the doorway, and at his feet was a pile of dropped merchandise. “Dude, you’re _alright_!”

“Uh, yeah,” Dipper answered quickly. “Everything’s okay now—nothing to worry about.”

Soos looked to Norman and Mabel. “Really?”

Norman and Mabel both nodded back at Soos. “Really.”

Exhaling heavily, Soos sagged against the doorframe. “What a relief . . .”

“What?” Stan demanded. “It’s not like anything serious happened. They’re just a little muddy. Speaking of, you three had better get cleaned up. We’ve got more groups coming soon, and I don’t want them thinking I’m running some sorta two-bit operation here with the labor of filthy, neglected children. Oh, also,” he remembered, “you’re dad called, Paintbrush. He wants you home. And I don’t want him thinking I’m letting you kids run around all filthy and neglected either. Child Services is already watching me like a hawk. Soos can run you home, I guess, after you clean yourself up a bit . . .”

After some quick scrubbing, Norman—still sopping, but presentable (if not necessarily clean)—was ready to be conducted home. “I guess I _did_ have to go home eventually . . .” he admitted ruefully. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can. I mean, it’s still summer, so it’s not like I have to worry about school in the morning . . .”

Dipper nodded. “Sure thing, man. You’ve still gotta tell us about that new ghost you met.”

“And you’ve gotta help us update the journal!” Mabel declared.

“Yeah. In the meantime, you both need to watch for any other symptoms of werecatism,” Norman ordered seriously, almost like a doctor. “We want to make sure it really is gone for good . . . Well, see you both later . . .”

And then Norman ran downstairs, where Soos was waiting with the truck.

“So everything’s really fixed with Dipping Sauce?” Soos inquired during the short drive to town.

“I think so, yeah.”

Content with that, Soos nodded, “Good.”

****

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully.

Until about five, the Mystery Shack was kept busy with appointment tours, which Stan and Soos conducted with mesmerizing showmanship. Wendy, as always, ran the shop with a relaxed if iron fist—one that would coolly fist-bump you while it idly counted up surcharges and enforced the two-souvenir minimum. “Or whatever . . .” Dipper and Mabel floated about as needed: restocking shelves, cleaning and straightening where needed, but mostly encouraging the strange sense of wonderment that always (and inexplicably) filled the people who visited the Shack. After years of coaching from Stan, the two were expert stokers of this mania, and could leave the unwary tourist in a froth to learn (and pay) more about anything. Customers were genially gouged at every opportunity, and seemed to think the gouging was a rare privilege in exchange for Stan’s “accredited” sagacity on the mysterious and paranormal. Especially Bigfoot.

Everything was back to the abnormal that passed for normal in their world.

Robbie did swing by to see Wendy towards three, with a bright orange vest over his habitual gray hoodie. And a dead duck, which he lay before her on the register. “So, Wendy, what do ya think?” he asked cockily. “Yeah, it was my first time hunting yesterday, but I still managed to shoot this duck. Boom. Right out of the sky. Just for you, girl. Thought you might like it. Pretty manly, huh?”

“Is that a price tag on its leg?” Dipper ventured innocently.

“_No_! Okay, _yes_, but the Park Service charges you per animal you hunt. Any hunter knows that.”

In Wendy’s eyes, that didn’t just merit a face-palm; it merited a double face-palm. “Robbie . . .” she sighed. “Please stop bringing me dead animals. It’s kinda creepy.”

“But, I thought you _liked_ this! You said it’s all manly, and you like that!” he protested.

“I said I don’t usually think of collars as manly. And I _never_ said that I _like_ all that agro manliness like hunting and motorcycles and lumberjacking. I like _you_, you big moron. So no more dead animals?”

“No more dead animals,” Robbie promised, his manner generally deflated; he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the idea of being liked specifically because he wasn’t “agro manly”. He definitely didn’t like looking ridiculous in front of the little squirt. “See you after work, I guess . . .”

Once Robbie had gone, Wendy leaned back and groaned, “Oh man . . .”

“Y-yeah, I know,” Dipper said quickly, trying to laugh about it with her.

“He brought me a dead duck, Dipper. A _dead duck_.”

“I know, right? Ahaha . . .” Dipper forced a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “What kinda freak thinks _that’ll_ impress a girl? Ahahaha . . . It’s completely crazy . . .”

“Nah, it’s just _Robbie_. Kinda sweet in a way that’s boneheaded, moody, a little insecure . . .”

“It was from ‘Mike’s Meats’, at least,” Dipper pointed out. “They’re got a reputation for quality.”

Wendy laughed. “Was it? Dang! I should’ve snagged it; my brothers _love_ duck meat.”

After a brief pause, Dipper cleared his throat and tried to casually say, “I guess . . . I guess it’s not all that hard to understand, though . . .”

“Hmm? Leaving me dead animals isn’t hard to understand?”

“Well, I don’t mean _that_ part . . . total freak move, but . . . I mean the part about wanting to . . . impress a girl like you, is all,” Dipper finished in a mumble.

“Aw . . . That’s so sweet . . .” And Wendy leaned in and gave him a little peck on the cheek.

Dipper blushed profusely, instantly going red enough to turn a Siberian dacha into a sauna.

But Wendy didn’t notice as she straightened immediately up and began to tousle his behatted, curly head. “Bet you use that sweet talk on all the girls. Don’t think I’m not on to you, ya heartbreaker!”

Grinning in pure bliss, Dipper purred, “Hurrrhurrrhurrr . . . Errr, _ahem_ . . .” he caught himself. “Little Lotharrrio—_Lothario_, that’s me . . . I, er, better go help Mabel with . . . that important thing . . .”

Shortly before closing time, the Mailman passed. It surprised Mabel (but not Dipper, who was too preoccupied with worry from the episode of involuntary purring to notice much of anything) to see him there. Mercifully, he was clothed (though just as hairy as ever) and apparently going about his rounds as though nothing unusual had happened. However, upon seeing her, he waved and pointed to a specific letter among the mail. Then he slipped it all into the mailbox and continued on his way.

After retrieving it, Mabel found Soos glaring suspiciously down the road.

“It’s okay, Soos,” she assured him. “We cured him, too.”

“Dude’s not a werewolf? Er, werecat?”

“Not anymore! He just has enough body hair to make a sweater. Oh my gosh . . . INSPIRATION!”

“So what was he indicating to you? Is that a special letter?”

Opening it, Mabel found a simple card. “It says, ‘I am so sorry, and thank you so much.’ From ‘Mr. Lycanthrope’. Well wasn’t that thoughtful! First letter I ever got from something that attacked me. Old Man McGucket still hasn’t apologized for nearly killing us with his mechanical Gobblewonker . . .”

Finally, after Wendy and Soos had both headed for home, and Stan had recounted the day’s mountainous profits (which were so good that he treated Dipper and Mabel to a meal at Greasy’s Diner during which they actually got to select something off the regular menu), Norman returned.

“Hey, guys. My dad said I could spend the night again. So . . . I miss anything?”

“Yes!” Dipper replied worriedly. “I started _purring_ again. _Purring_, do you hear?! What if I’m changing back?! What if we didn’t fix anything?!”

“Well, worst case scenario, I guess you’ll have to take a bath again . . .”

“Ha!” Mabel crowed. “Good one!”

“This is _serious_, guys!” Dipper insisted.

Norman considered his friend for a minute, then inquired unenthusiastically, “Was it . . . Did it, er, have anything to do with Wendy?”

“Um . . .” Suddenly blushing, Dipper stammered, “S-she did . . . sorta give me . . . a _k-kiss_.”

A small but knowing smile curled Norman’s lips. Mabel noticed that it didn’t reach his eyes, which actually looked a little sad. “You’re probably alright, then,” he told Dipper. “Still, if you’re . . . y’know, s-still worried about it, I did find _this_ . . .”

From his pocket, he drew a twig of dark wood. A few faded blossoms somehow still clung to it. They were small and white. Norman gave them to Dipper.

“Tree flowers?” Dipper asked questioningly.

“Grandma says it’s Pacific Dogwood—grows all over Oregon, we even have some by my house. So I thought, I saw the tree and there were the blossoms, and I thought about what Gruncle Stan said. About, y’know, dogwood flowers keeping the cat part away. S-so, I . . . y’know, grabbed some for you. Can’t hurt right? If you want, or whatever,” Norman concluded, trying not to show how flustered he felt.

“Huh. Well, yeah. Can’t hurt, after all. Thanks, man,” Dipper said obliviously.

“M-maybe you could keep them . . . under your hat, or something?” Norman suggested shyly.

Dipper did just that. “Good thinking. It’s silly, but . . . they actually make me _feel_ better . . .”

“Good.”

Behind her brother’s back, Mabel winked at Norman, who blushed lightly. Then she zipped her lips with a wide smile.

“Kids! The new Duck-tective is on!” Stan called, saving them from any awkward silence. “Coming, or what? Oh, hey Paintbrush! C’mon in!”

****

Mr. Lycanthrope was conscientious; the mail must be delivered, and it did not matter how long or hard the delivery was. He had already delayed it—a cardinal, nigh unpardonable, sin in his mind—long enough with his malady, and he would work through the night to rectify that wrong if he must.

But he did permit himself a breather towards ten o’clock.

Sitting on the ground beneath a lamp, he looked at what little of the Moon remained this cycle. After some contemplation, he drew a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It contained a list. Some items had already been crossed out, but not all. It read:

<strike>Werewolfism</strike>

Werefrogism

Werehorseism

<strike>Weregatorism</strike>

<strike>Werecatism</strike>

Werebearism

<strike>Weremanateeism</strike>

Wereflamingoism

Looking at the Moon and the stars again, he sighed. Life was just not kind to some people.

****

The three kids watched a scary movie, and talked and laughed together . . .

They made ice cream sundaes, and talked and laughed together . . .

They brushed their teeth and made rabid faces, and talked and laughed together . . .

They had a toothpaste foam race, and talked and laughed together . . .

They had a yarn fight, and talked and laughed together . . .

They pushed their mattresses together on the floor, and talked and laughed together . . .

They turned off the lights and lay down, and talked and laughed together . . .

They slept, and dreamt of talking and laughing together . . .

****

Mount Immovable stirred from its doze and looked sleepily down upon the valley . . .

The Child of Stars and Earth slept peacefully in his shelter, healed of the ailment that had wrought so frightening a change upon his body. 3 was once more safely in his keeping. On either side lay the Child of Rainbows and Heart and the Child of Spirits and Words, his stalwart companions . . .

The briefest dream, ephemeral but full of joy, had restored _their_ world. They had fought for it, and so the dream had fought for them. They had protected it, and so the dream had protected them . . .

They had stood together, and so the dream had stood with them . . .

It was the duty of Mount Immovable to protect the world through its dreams . . .

And these three children, they always gave it such pleasant dreams . . .

So it would always protect their little, yet vast, world . . .

Mount Immovable shut its eye and continued to dream of the three children . . .


End file.
